The Pursuit Of Happiness
by One Wish Magic
Summary: One-Shot. It's Kurt's first day at Dalton and Blaine is there to guide him through it. But every new beginning always keeps the company of an end. His search is one for happiness but is this in the world he is about to discover, or the one he left behind?


_So this is a story of firsts, in that, I never thought I would be writing glee fanfiction (not that I had anything against the show, I just hadn't discovered it yet, as soon as I had I fell in love with it) and I never thought I would be writing glee fanfiction encompassing hints of slash (again, nothing against it, it just wasn't the sort of thing I read/wrote) but what can I say, the absolute adorableness of Kurt and Blaine won me over. They two are just amazing and melt my heart :D_

_So this was born out of a compulsion to write something about those two, and in the process it just kind of took on a life of its own._

_Even though Kurt is an amazingly stong character, I always thought that the torment of Karofsky would leave it's mark upon him, even if he endevoured to hide its affects from the world. So in this he is finding acceptance - in himself and concerning what happened - love and happiness._

_Also, I have written Blaine as being the older of the two, because In my opinion, he always seemed to be. I usually try and stay as close to real thing as possible, but in this case I seek permission to deter. Besides, I am convinced that they have messed up his age! I'm certain I read quotes from an interview, which revealed Blaine as being a year older than Kurt, or at the least 18. And also, he is refered to as 'junior' Warbler and this seems likely to corrospond to his year at school, which would make him the same age as Kurt. Season 2 ends, and everyone moves up to the next year, as per normal, but Blaine is a juniour again? I dunno, I could be wrong and if someone offers me an explantion I'd more than happily accept it, but until then, i'm convinced they have messed up his age :') _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own enjoyment._

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Pursuit Of Happiness.<strong>_

What was harder; leaving behind the threads of an old life, or picking up the beginnings of a new one?

Fragmented songs only worked in mash-ups and even then only sparingly and not without dedication, but what of fragmented lives? Every song must have its end, but whether it was curtailed prematurely, or reigned victorious to a standing ovation remained undetermined.

A mash up of bisected verses, oppositional and out of harmony, clamouring for prevalence upon an ill constructed melody: that would be the current state of his life if he should translate it into song. Wherein, the familiar, though erratic bass notes of a tumultuously dissimilar past were suppressed to nothing more than a whisper, overcome by the crescendo of a breathtaking new track infused with potential, allure, trepidation and a gamut of other emotions entwined.

Driving privileges reinstated in lieu of necessity, Kurt steered his prize Escalade off the main highway so that it encroached upon the side-walk, and killed the engine.

Immediately closing his eyes, he stole this brief respite in order to draw in some deep breaths and compose himself before he faced his future.

Butterflies as haughty, overzealous and plentiful as Rachel's solos made their presence known within his stomach, writhing and fidgeting in a distinctly nauseating fashion. His palms were damp with a thin sheen of sweat, which at any other time he simply could not abide, and even the breath within his lungs felt strangely sharp and cutting. Almost absent-mindedly, he tugged at the stiff, rigid white collar which seemed unduly smothering and constricting, and fingered the elegant if not form flattering red-trimmed blazer; feeling far more restricted and stifled than he could ever previously recall. Uniform was yet another quaint prospect with which he would have to quickly acquaint himself.

But, discomfort and first-day nerves aside, he could not help but feel, well … liberated, as unlikely as that seemed; _wanted_. For the first time in his life, he was really part of something – not an outsider, not a spectacle, but one heart, in the congregation of a hundred all beating in unison. He was free to be whoever he wanted to be, away from prejudice, away from violence and away from hate.

His transfer to Dalton had been swift, if not painless. Just last week he had been Kurt Hummel: junior, fashionista and only open gay student at McKinley High. Just last week, he had been anticipating the build up to his father's and Carol's wedding and the certification of his and Finn's brotherhood, not just in action but in law. Just last week he had defected his place in fear of Karofsky's immanent return …

In one fluid motion his eyes snapped open and quickly traversed the perimeter of his car for any notable signs of breach. He shivered visibly in the weak autumn sunshine, which was not yet submissive enough to warrant such a gesture, and sank back into the embrace of the leather seat, breathing raggedly. The memory of his torment was still too raw to even consider.

The only sound within the plush interior was the meandering warble of an old country classic; the name of which he had not cared to catch – but the wandering baritone of the heartsick rangers journey, coupled with the interim rhythms of indulgent joy and sorrow, both prospective and past, seemed to capture the very essence of his mood at that moment in a way no other genre was capable.

He let the song run it's course, listening without really hearing. Everyone was searching for something, the entire world in fact, but his own journey was far less patriotic and far more personal than those he had heard transcribed into song: the pursuit of happiness.

Every decision could be viewed from two conflictive perspectives, given a persons philosophy and general temperament. But chances were, whatever path a person elected, and for whatever reason, somewhere down the line they would find regret; for loves lost, for roads not taken, for mistakes tended in foolishness which could never be undone. Therefore, the only true deterrent and shield against such an onslaught was happiness, for in the cradle of bliss, there is no hold for what might have been.

Though there was no doubt his decision was the right one, he had regrets. Chief among them was that the money to fund his tuition had been siphoned away from his father and Carol's honeymoon savings. The very prominent reality of such a loss was not the worst part however, the worst part had been their willingness and insistence. No-one deserved to be happy more than they did, and yet, without hesitation they gave up that chance for the prospect of _his_ happiness, spending beyond their means just to make sure he was safe.

He had pledged to repay them, every last cent; even if it took him 30 years, even if that meant selling his entire collective wardrobes and living day and night in his uniform – a horrific prospect no less. But inherently selfish though it remained, he knew that, given the opportunity to make the decision anew, he would still have chosen the self same path, time and time again.

But guilt was not the only casualty of his transition, though he wished it was, for even that abhorrent emotion was better than the pangs of loss. He missed Mercedes more than words could express; her company, her laugher, her insatiable thirst for gossip, without her by his side the world just that much more hostile.

He wished he had told her just how much she meant to him when she had called his name across the choir room, wished he had made her understand, but instead, he had walked away, too consumed by grief to console her. With a friend, it was easy; a few embroidered sentiments intoned with vague sincerity was fitting enough tribute, but with a best friend; there were no words adequate enough to communicate such a depth of feeling.

His relationship with Finn had also been similarly rocky over the past few days. It seemed he had taken Kurt's failure to confer with him about his decision to transfer to Dalton as a personal insult, much to the latter's sorrow. He understood Finn's feeling sidelined and un-included, he really did (and sympathised with him more than his step-brother would ever know) so, therefore, Kurt bore the stony expressions, the monosyllabic grunts which he conjectured must suffice for answers and the general hard-done-by apathy which pervaded any room his step-brother happened to be occupying, with good grace. Finn's objections aside though, this was his decision to make, and his loveable, good-hearted brother would come round eventually, once the dust settled.

Sometimes, it was easy to forget just how many people could become caught up in the cross-fire of a single cataclysmic event; a single decision.

But, today was a brand new start, a coveted opportunity to wipe the proverbial slate clean, and he resolutely intended to seize the moment.

An aggressive, deep-throated thrumming suddenly resonated from the internal depths of his messenger bag, startling him momentarily. He laughed half in humour, half in exasperation at his tense reaction, before extracting his Iphone. He _had_ to stop doing that! He couldn't live in a world of silence simply because the abruptness of sound registered as something malicious to his mind. These days he even flinched when Finn slammed the fridge door shut after finding nothing in there to his liking. He had never appreciated before just how similar a fridge and locker door sounded. It was starting to become annoying.

While his erratic heartbeat slowly dwindled to its appropriate rhythm, he re-awoke the pixelated screen, which pronounced him as having two unread messages.

The first was from Mercedes, wishing him luck on behalf of herself and New Directions as a whole. Those voiceless words brought a tear to his eye and he smiled sadly, not all that he was leaving behind were bad memories and fear. If that was the case, the transition would have been effortless, as easy as breathing. Even when their friendship was on uncertain terms, they were still there for each other, that trumped popularity any day.

The second was from Blaine – and there went any opportunity for his heart to re-establish it's resting rhythm. Even now, as common practice as it was for the dark-haired teens name to flash upon the glaring screen, the occurrence never failed to elicit the same thrill of excitement, as if it was the very first time.

Positively humming with elation, Kurt opened the message, which was brief but heartfelt, baring the sentiments: '_Courage. I'm here whenever you arrive_.'

Beaming, he deftly typed out two replies, returned the gadget to the bowels of his school-bag and re-engaged the ignition, pulling smoothly away from the pavement and back out onto the main highway, all within the scope of a minute and a half. Abruptly, the hold of hesitancy and trepidation was severed, and he was ready to embrace all that Dalton Academy had to offer.

Vaguely he considered how one person could hold such a sway over him, could affect him so profoundly and completely so as to erase all fear with six simple words. But when considering that that person was Blaine Anderson, he conceded that reason spoke for itself.

He had never met anyone so dapper, charming and charismatic, or who he had so instantly taken to, before. The guy embodied suave allure, like some earthbound deity. Soft-spoken, kind and humble, the mere image of him would resign many would-be idols to shame. In him Kurt had found more than a friend, he had found a mentor, someone to aspire to, and on a more personal level, he had found; complete understanding, unyielding loyalty and semblance to a person not unlike himself. And best of all, Blaine was actually gay. That in itself marked progress.

Kurt Hummel was not a gambling man, but even he could appreciate favourable odds when they designed to grace life's playing table. It would be almost poetic; the opening symphony of an ageless opera, full of possibility … But then, he had learned his lesson the hard way where Finn was concerned; you could not force what was never there to begin with, and furthermore, it was primarily wrong try. One persons wealth of feeling could not compensate for the others complete lack, no matter how great. Love had to be reciprocated; wholly and willingly.

So while he unashamedly envisioned a myriad of scenario's, each prominently featuring his and Blaine's requited professions of love, his newly instated sense of rationality, novice in its exercise, forcefully reasoned that, if ultimately friendship was all that was offered, he would gladly accept, foregoing any further delusions. That was the theory at least.

With clumsy, fumbling movements, he snapped down the visor against the watery glare of the wintering sun, whose weak rays for all their proximity were absent of almost any heat. Affirming that the road ahead was both devoid and unwavering, he quickly checked his hair in the convenient mirror. Old habits died hard.

Saplings of beech and birch trimmed the grey track, blinking past his side windows with marked rapidity in an environment of paradox. Someone had evidently gone to great lengths in establishing such a scenic rout which so dismissively belied its own efforts of constitution. It was kind of beautiful, and Kurt felt strangely privileged to traverse the embellished highway, and even more so, to do it with purpose.

These were the comparatively unimportant observations upon which he focused his attention as the grand establishment of Dalton Academy loomed into view ahead; an ivory silhouette against the morning sky.

It was now or never.

With anxious anticipation, he steered through the iron-wrought gates – which rested still and impervious against the trimmed verges; their spear-headed pinnacles casting elongated shadows upon the ground – and pulled into the courtyard which fronted the estate-house academy.

Infused with grandeur and sophistication, the entire scene was like a visionary dream of some ambitious impressionist endeavouring to paint his mark upon the world. Except, his masterpiece had been rendered into real life. Kurt almost blanched, taken aback by its air of indifferent regalement and pride: its foreignness.

Labouring under the unabated clouds of Karofsky's torment as he had been at the time, it seemed he had failed to take in more than a fleeting figment of impression. For now, it was like seeing everything for the first time; the spires, the trees, the domed ceilings, and in that instant he knew: here he was going to be happy.

It was a world away from McKinley, and as he floundered elatedly in the alien environment, his eyes found the one anchorage, which affirmed all this as reality.

There, at 8am sharp, with two steaming lattes in hand and that dapper smile upon his lips, betraying no ill feeling towards the unceremonious wake up call Kurt had delivered, stood Blaine, waiting in the cold for his arrival. Kurt felt like the luckiest guy alive, and that was the truth.

Having exhausted every other possible avenue of action in the pursuit of sleep and all but resigning himself to the clutches of temporary insomnia, Kurt had honestly expected Blaine to be angry with him when he worked up the nerve to call him at 5 in the morning, just needing to hear someone's voice.

Blaine, however, had been nothing short of honourable. Kurt had almost resolved to cut off the line and just sit tight until seven when the sleep laden, but still distinguished tones of the junior Warbler broke through the static. It had indeed been a novel experience to catch the flawless teenager so unprepared, it comfortingly reminded Kurt that he was human after all.

They had talked for a little over half an hour in hushed tones. Blaine presumably to avoid incurring the wrath of a room-mate, and Kurt simply in-keeping with the tenor of the conversation. Finn could sleep through anything, so muted whispers were not a precaution which needed observing.

Other than renegotiating the time of their meeting, the bulk of their conversation constituted matters of little concern, but somewhere within the plethora of unrelated topics, Kurt found covert comfort, and more than that, he found confidence.

Call ended, he had immediately set to readying himself. Leaving a note upon the dining table accounting for his absence, he was out of the house and driving even before the rest of his family were properly stirring, and that was including two-hair restylings.

Blaine whistled appreciatively as Kurt pulled up and killed the purring engine, its absence comparatively disquieting. He wished he could stay within the confines of his Escalade forever, where he was indisputably in control, but that wasn't a option – to live was to relinquish to chance – so taking a deep breath, grabbing his messenger bag and quickly crossing his fingers for luck, he ventured forth into the outside world.

"Nice!" Blaine enthused, his adoring eyes roaming over the high-finish paintwork, smooth contours and general presiding bulk of the statement car.

"Yep," gushed Kurt proudly, palming the wing mirror with fond appreciation. Growing up alongside an auto-repair business, he knew the value of good cars. "She's not exactly what people expect. 'Least I'll look like I might belong here if nothing else." He laughed nervously as Blaine continued to admire his pride and joy, performing a complete 360 appraisal with an eye that obviously knew a little something about cars.

How had he managed to win the attention of someone so perfect, he mused absently. It was like walking from the shades of a nightmare into the sweetest most impossible dream, only better, for this world would not fade in waking. Though it still bemused him why someone like Blaine would give someone like him even so much as the time of day, it was unfounded … But then, people in Dalton didn't appear to fall into cliques, and if everyone was treated equally, then maybe it wasn't so unlikely? Everything which he had known was his entire world, was it feasible that it had been founded upon skewed values?

Without warning Blaine's voice resounded from directly beside him, almost deafening to his reverie, and before reason could intervene, and before he could stop himself; he cringed from the pleasant sound as if it had been a shout of violence; preluding attack. For a moment, everything went black.

" … Whoa! Hey, easy! Are you okay?"

He was suddenly very aware of Blaine's hands upon his shoulders, holding him grounded as the world oscillated sickeningly around him. The contact was warm and comforting as he fought to level out his shallow, unsatisfying breaths and blink away the darkness from his vision; he used it as a focal point. Dazed as he was, it was a few moments before he fully appreciated the fact; … Blaine's hands were shaking.

Or, maybe he was shaking? It was impossible to determine. Shame flooding through him at the foolishness of his own overreaction, as the urge for flight receded, he slowly graduated his gaze from the ground to rest upon Blaine's face; his breathing still somewhat erratic and the prickling heat of embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

The concern in Blaine's eyes startled him for its rawness. He didn't know what he had expected to see there, but certainly not such a depth of emotion as he perceived.

The instant Kurt met those eyes, Blaine's face was flooded with palpable relief and he smiled, though there was stiffness and tension behind it. "There you are! Are you alright? You looked like you blacked out on me for a second there." For a heartbeat, the concern was reinstated before being usurped by sincere repentance, "I'm sorry, that was careless of me. I didn't mean to startle you." He looked so sad.

Still feeling a little shaky and more than a fraction awkward, he pooled the last reserves of bravado in effort to reassure the dark-haired teenager and absolve him of his guilt. Drawing in a breath, he assumed his most unconcerned air, which was like a barrier between him and the rest of the world, and forced a laugh;

"Don't worry about it. Apparently I missed my calling in amateur dramatics; according to Finn anyway. Though, I think he was trying to be scathing, I had just tossed his lucky football shirt rather unceremoniously into the wash. 'Lucky' it wasn't the bin actually ..."

_Pull it together Kurt_! He coached himself. _If you pretend like nothing can touch you, then it can't_. If he gave up and submitted to fear, then Karofsky won, and he might as well just conform for it meant that being different was something to be ashamed of. Kurt Hummel was proud of who he was and so he would fight the compulsion to hide away.

Blaine, however, did not appear entirely convinced, and Kurt got the impression that the older boy knew that his front was exactly that. He perused Kurt's face with intensity, as if seeking something there and drawing a blank, finally his visionary appraisal relented, and he asked with tender care;

"You don't feel sick, or dizzy? No headache, blurred vision?"

Kurt shook his head; "Honestly, I'm _fine_. You startled me is all," then added as an afterthought, "and I overreacted."

Though still looking a fraction doubtful and concerned, Blaine conceded any further argument, realising that Kurt was resolute. Almost reluctantly, he removed a hand from Kurt's shoulder, before proffering him something warm and aromatic. Kurt had all but forgot about the coffee Blaine had so thoughtfully purchased, it's partner still resting upon the bonnet of his car like some bizarre statuette.

"I thought you might need this," he supplied with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm afraid it's only from a machine, but it's still pretty good all the same."

Eternally grateful, Kurt accepted it and took a sip. It was no grande non-fat mocha, but the younger teen had to admit, it _was_ good! He licked his lips a sighed appreciatively, feeling the warm liquid flow through him like a infusion of energy. So Dalton did good coffee, if that wasn't a sign that things were looking up he didn't know what was.

"And clearly to your liking ..." Blaine chuckled watching him savour the taste.

Seeming finally assured that his friend was not about to collapse, Blaine let his lingering hand fall free from Kurt's shoulder, and snagging his own caffinated beverage, tugged lightly upon the others sleeve until they were trading even paces, before renouncing contact completely. Kurt was sorry for it's loss.

"Come on, formalities are always the worst, so lets get them out of the way first and see about your timetable. After that the rest is easy." Blaine offered him a winning smile, tone full of encouragement.

"Oh sure, after _paper-work_ assimilation will be a breeze." Even despite himself, Kurt couldn't help but relax in Blaine's presence.

Blaine guided him through the convoluted labyrinth of corridors and stairwells, which constituted the ambiance of Dalton, with an air of complacency, while Kurt, silenced by awe, drank in the features of his surrounding with wide-eyed wonder. It was almost incomprehensible that anyone could become so accustomed to the splendour of their environment, so that one day it just ceased to matter.

But then, he reminded himself that in his virgin state, nothing subsequent would ever elicit the same impressionist response that it did, in this, his initial glimpse. Familiarity remoulded every indiscriminate object, until it became no longer what we saw, but what we felt; it's true identity was lost to our projected impression. It was like a song that had been overplayed; the song never changed, only our feelings towards it, and bit by bit with each rendition, it lost the very essence which had attracted us to it in the first instance.

Vaguely, he wondered if he would ever become so desensitised, at the moment it seemed highly improbable, for he was intoxicated upon the very thrill of it. It was like floating through the momentous folds of a dream, where every movement beheld a significance not witnessed in reality, or the most glorious and effectual moment of an epic ballad, which caused its devoted listeners to weep or else swoon with feeling.

The way the pale sunlight flooded through the satin-trimmed bay windows, gilding the walls with a crystalline spectrum, seeming all the more potent in concentrate. The tales told in the tapestry-esque wallpaper which ran the length of the hallway like histories physicality and mural. The adorned frames of Dalton's founders and other revered figures of the past, rendered in portraiture, intermittently embellishing the walls and bestowing upon the academy an air of unparalleled regalement. The gentle scent of morning flowers, freshly picked and set on show at regimented intervals, looking like works of art in their own right. The homely feel resonated by the religious placement of leather bound benches and armchair hand in hand with inspiring ornamentation, indescribably comforting even if a little ostentatious. The way talk and laughter reverberated harmoniously in the high ceiling expanse, which was in itself augmented with glass dome renditions which framed the multiple curvature staircases and with rose stemmed chandeliers, which glistened and whispered and danced in seductive lustre …

People milled around in the hallways, a sea of red and blue clad faces which Kurt found inexplicably hard to differentiate. Talking in animated groups, pursuing a book in solitude, consumed by the demands of fervent texting, cramming in one last precious hour of revision upon which they staked all of their hopes, or else completing last minute assignments and homework remembered only on a whim. The sight was both curiously similar and dissimilar to the one he had become accustomed to at McKinley.

Every now and then, a curious head would turn in Kurt's direction, but after an initial interested glance, and perhaps even a brief spark of recognition, each party would return their attentions back to their prior engagement. Though not hostile, Kurt still found the practice unnerving as he belatedly recalled what being the 'new guy' usually entailed.

Blaine's hand was a warm, steady pressure upon his elbow as the walked side-by-side, a gesture that was both guiding and strengthening. And while the dark-haired Warbler graciously returned calls of salutation, and deferentially declined invitations for him, and by extension, Kurt, to join various groups or individual members, Kurt noticed with relish that the bulk of his friends attentions were reserved for him. And didn't that make him feel valued. Blaine talked of staff and procedure and protocol and the Warblers and what situations were best left avoided, in a way that was as equally reassuring to the younger teen as it was bemusing.

Though he coveted each snippet of advice as if they constituted a word-of-mouth-survival-guide, life preservers in a storm, and though he fought valiantly to process and commit to memory the inexorable amount of information with which he was being assailed, Kurt could not curb the digression of his attention, for there was just too much to see and be seen.

Finally, after his sleep deprived faculties had absorbed all they could of splendour and the intonation of faceless names, he fell to the task of observing Blaine – a ceaseless employ. His gait was smooth and confident upon his home ground, an easy compliment to the acceptance and comfortableness he had found here. Surreptitiously, Kurt attempted to emulate it, but with less than desirable results. He thought he caught the brief spark of amusement flicker in Blaine's eyes, like the strike of a match in a sea of hazel, though he couldn't be entirely certain. His cheeks burned hot with the prospect, but the other never called him upon it.

And, another thing … Blaine's proximity, while being enjoyable, was completely novel. In the absence of comparison, he had never truly noticed before just how uncomfortable people – and guys especially – were in his presence; as if the stigma attached to his sexuality embodied him, as if being gay defined him. With Mercedes it didn't matter, their friendship was worth more than the ignorance of the mass, they identified with each other on levels deeper than could be perceived by the naked eye, and he guessed with Finn too, although that in itself had been a rocky ascent. Having Blaine so comfortably close to him, therefore, was nice, was better than nice. His brow furrowed at the revelation; now that he really thought about it, he wondered how such blatant unease made him feel.

Abruptly, Blaine's tuition ceased and he fixed Kurt with a sheepish expression.

"Sorry, I'm overwhelming you, aren't I?"

" - What? No! It's not you," Kurt placated, stirring form him morose reverie to meet those ever compassionate eyes, "everything here is a little overwhelming." He offered the hallway a sweeping gesture as if to reinforce his point.

Blaine chuckled agreeably; "Yeah, it is at first. I remember the first week that I transferred. I got so caught up in admiring the scenery and the fittings and the grounds that I ended up late for almost all of my lessons and missed my first Warbler's practice completely; needless to say, Wes was not impressed. Moral in there for you," he winked conspiratorially, "but don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough."

'_Formalities_' entailed a tedious amount of form filling as Kurt soon discovered when Blaine guided him to a discreet corner of the first floor, which appeared solely to house the admin staff.

Explaining his predicament to a woman of inexplicably cheery disposition; who embodied the fond air of a well loved grandmother, he was fixed with an apologetic look before being handed a dauntingly generous pile of documentation and motioned towards a conveniently situated desk.

Blaine sat patiently at his side throughout the whole ordeal; sipping his coffee and lending a second mind to the confusingly repetitive questions whenever Kurt hesitated, pen poised over page, for an extended period.

The administration offices were predominated by a strange Ceader-wood scent – Kurt wondered distractedly whether it was natural or manufactured – and housed comparatively fewer windows than the rest of the academy building, lending a sense of stifling imposition and claustrophobia to their setting, despite the elegant fixtures.

Focused as he was upon the task in hand, he startled slightly when Blaine's hand shot out of nowhere and lightly fingered the mounted horse-head badge upon his lapel. The touch instantly stealing his attention.

"Hmmm, that's an interesting addition." His tone was smooth and genuinely considerate. Meanwhile Kurt concentrated upon the suddenly difficult necessity of breathing, certain that the abrupt tightness in his chest was born of no remnant panic.

"Just a quick heads up though; they'll let you off today, but otherwise Dalton has a pretty strict dress code, and teachers wont think twice about handing out a uniform detention."

So Dalton penalized customization and embellishment, he could live with that … right?

"Duly noted."

The prospect of demanded conformity and regiment daunted him slightly after the freedom of McKinley.

Blaine was scrutinizing him again, in a way that caused him to shift uncomfortably and introspectively question just how easy he and his emotions were to read. For the regularity and amount of people who misunderstood his motives … he couldn't be that easy.

"That seems really unnatural to you, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea."

Hand cramping in protest, he finally completed the laborious task, and it was with an air of sagacious good-riddance that he handed in the over-numerous forms, receiving in exchange his timetable and a map.

It was almost nine when the two boys retraced their footsteps through the rapidly emptying hallways. Kurt fervently pursued the first dimension representation of Dalton with overzealous interest, endeavouring to commit the layout entirely to memory. He allowed Blaine's purposeful steps to guide the course of his own.

Potentially, the worst thing any new student could do was whip out a map in the centre of the corridor and set to examining it. That action would draw both unwanted attention and opportunists to him faster then Noah Puckerman could draw the lust of women, and while Kurt lived for the spotlight, sometimes even a diva needed a down day. Therefore, the more he could learn now, the less likely the chance of him looking the fool. Theoretically.

The opportunity, however, was short lived.

"What are you doing?" Blaine asked, raising an eyebrow and evidently finding the distinctly common activity highly amusing.

Unintentionally adopting the defensive, Kurt answered in clipped tones;

"I should have thought that was obvious." He heavily disliked being ignorant as to the source of humour, for it usually meant _he_ was it.

Blaine, however, was unperturbed by his friends waspish comment, though his smile became kinder and he checked his breathy laughter.

"What I meant to say was; you don't need a map."

"Well, while I appreciate your misguided optimism in -"

"Kurt?" Valiantly fighting back a smile, Blaine waited until the younger teen stilled his rant and looked him in the eye, albeit a little indignantly, still guardedly hostile, before impressing; "You don't need a map because _I'll_ walk to you to your classes."

Kurt's frostiness thawed instantly. And who said chivalry was dead?

"Oh," he blushed slightly, embarrassed by his mistake.

"Oh," Blaine repeated sagely, still smiling. And then in a slow, gentle gesture, he bumped his shoulder slightly against Kurt's forearm; "Don't always assume that people are out to mock you, most of the time they're probably laughing with you." Kurt took that advice on-board.

"Right, let's have a look at your timetable and figure out where you are supposed to be."

Having barely glanced at it himself, he handed the appropriate sheet over to Blaine, who held it out for the both of them to read concurrently. The older teen traced the appropriate column before making a noise of sympathy.

"Maths. Ouch, rough start! On the plus side though, it seems we are in the same class."

So he had maths with Blaine, that was sure to be an interesting experience …

Although Kurt knew that there were teachers at Dalton – it was a school after all – somehow, they had never really figured in his impression of it before now. The set up had appeared pretty autonomous, what with impromptu Warbler performances in the study lounge. So he really had no idea what to expect when he stepped into the cavernous expanse of the maths room, complete with sash windows, chalk board and beautifully adorned ceiling, which were more reminiscent of a turn of the century show home than an actual functioning classroom.

The pressed shirt and tie he deemed pretty par for the course, but the thin, balding, bespectacled man of distinctly ferreting movement was a surprise to say the least. And what was more, this downtrodden fellow who would have been cruelly ridiculed at McKinley, found only complete respect at Dalton.

Blaine chose seats towards the rear of the classroom, for which Kurt was grateful, for it meant no-body could openly stare at him without attracting undue attention to themselves. Perhaps Blaine had been thinking upon those same lines as well, for Kurt charged it highly improbable that the lead soloist of the Warblers commonly sat alone at the back of the classroom like some misunderstood schoolboy. His hunch was further confirmed by Blaine's reassuring whisper;

"Everybody here is really nice once you get to know them; there is no judgement, no prejudice and no discrimination, it's like family. But we'll take things slow until you are ready." Kurt appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

He soon discovered that Dalton maths was like the remnant of some long-dead language unceremoniously resurrected from beyond the grave. His grades at McKinley had been mediocre at worst, but this … this was something else entirely.

All too quickly his mind was dizzied and befuddled by a combination of complex equations and long-winded methods, marking his efforts rather hit and miss. To his consolation though, this seemed to be the consensus yield of the class, and he at least fared better than the guy sitting two rows in front, who was yet to successfully answer a question. Rapidly he began to appreciate just how such a weak figure had won dominion over his class; people here respected intelligence instead of denouncing it.

Lulled by the faint, placid scratch of pencil against paper in the otherwise silence, Kurt began to drift. He had never known fourteen people to remain mute and focused for such an extended period of time before. Though he wore their uniform, he was naked in comparison to the intensity of their work ethic. It seemed there was more than one way to stick out.

In order to distract himself from the pursuit of forging problems before they even arose and before tiredness could really take hold, he turned to regard Blaine, whose attention was elsewhere engaged. His expression was focused and pensive; a frown weighing heavily upon his brow; fractionally creasing the skin at the corners of his eyes in a way that only accentuated their lustre and enhanced the set of his handsome features.

Again Kurt felt his heart flutter erratically. He really wished he could control it, or else curtail its betrayal, because it seemed so loud to him that it was impossible that no-one else heard it.

Then, suddenly, Blaine's arm brushed against his own, warm, smooth and flourished in a movement of irritation. Its touch seemed to leave a train of fire in its wake, while Kurt was racked with amusement. He knew he shouldn't laugh, but it was just so darn cute and so completely Blaine: his friend became frustrated with himself when he couldn't figure out the answer to something. He was such a perfectionist. Kurt chuckled quietly before revelation sobered him.

… Blaine's arm had brushed against his own? That must mean … for the first time he fully appreciated just how close to him Blaine was sitting. He felt slightly giddy, there were no walls, no boundaries, no self-imposed segregation, nothing, just complete ease and companionship.

He had shared tables with guys before, admittedly not through choice, and in his own experience, distance was the quota. Literally. By unspoken consent they had sat as far away from each other as the standard issue dark-wood table would uncomfortably allow – about the only time him and the rest of McKinley Highs male population had agreed on anything. Granted the most frightening prospect for any straight guy was attracting the attentions of a gay guy – prejudice out in force – but did that honestly extend to something so insignificant and meaningless as _sharing a table_?

And if it did, what then did Blaine's proximity mean? Was it simply a bi-product of their shared orientation, or was it more due to the fact that they could relax entirely in each others presence? Did it by chance mean nothing at all, and that he was just conjecturing significance from actions which held no such motive?

But it couldn't be more than five inches which separated them, surely that had to mean something …? He put his head in his hands and groaned quietly, was he seriously comparing the relative distances of two people sitting at a desk? He had officially hit rock bottom.

And then Blaine's voice was whispering urgently into his ear:

"What's wrong?" then a little more relaxed, seeming to take account of some extraneous factor: "are you stuck?"

"No. no, I'm fine. Just zoned out for a minute, that's all."

There was that endearing concern in Blaine's eyes again as Kurt looked up, so profound that it affected his entire countenance, and made the latter want to melt. But the one thing Blaine didn't look, was convinced.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Was there even the remotest hope that Blaine felt the same way about him, as he felt about Blaine? The chance was highly unlikely.

As if to add insult to injury, his first lesson at Dalton bore the ill received gift of homework and he really hoped that it wasn't setting precedent for the day ahead.

He rapidly concluded that the lessons at Dalton, as a general rule, were harder than those he had previously experienced at McKinley. They were also fewer and longer, and whereas he was accustomed to attending seven, forty-five minute lessons, he was now attending five one hour sessions throughout the day. And what a difference fifteen minutes made when ones attention was flagging. Teachers expected proficiency and prolific works produced in time frames which seemed frankly alarming, where failure to complete a task resulted in additional homework. And though the students of Dalton as a whole exuded intelligence and demanded competence, the intensity of their tuition seemed a little daunting to Kurt who was used to a more relaxed teaching style.

The interlude of mid-morning break passed in a blur of indistinguishable faces among a sea of blazers and ties and names forgotten as soon as they were spoken. Whenever chance permitted Blaine would orchestrate formal introductions; always maintaining a close watch upon Kurt's reactions, movements and expressions, using them to gage whether one more introduction would be too much for the younger teen to handle at the present. Little did he realize that his presence alone made Kurt feel stronger, safer and more confidant than he had done in a long while.

There was a tense moment, however, when one boy rather brusquely enquired his reasons for transferring mid-term as oppose to the next semester, which, academically, would have made more sense.

Kurt blanched, suddenly feeling sick and weak and hot all over. Seized by an overwhelming necessity to escape; to recoil from the implications of the situation; to flee from the truth, so consuming that no other thought existed, he fought to tear away from the group and run, foregoing favourable impression for self preservation, for sanctuary. Except … he couldn't move. Not a inch. Not a muscle. He couldn't even utter a sound. His body was completely immobilised against his desperation, like an oppositional force, and he was helpless to reclaim it.

Everything around him faded out of sight, hearing and recall and he was held ransom to two warring wills, neither of them feeling like his own.

Visions like high definition replays of Karofsky's tirade played out in his mind, somehow more noisome and vivid in the reliving. And though he knew it was impossible, the guttural dialect of the ignoramus football player seemed to echo suddenly in the hallways of Dalton, as if he presided over them too.

Kurt pretended he was fine, that Karofsky's relentless hatred did not faze him, that he could be knocked down and come back fighting, that life could go on as if nothing had happened. But really, the truth was that he wasn't even in the same area code as 'fine,' and that scared him more than almost anything else.

He may have tried to answer, mouth forming soundless words like a fish drowning upon land, or he may have simply stared blankly, blind and deaf to the world around him, he didn't know. The only things which made an impression upon him were matters of state, and even then only barely.

How his mouth turned barren and acrid and a lump lodged in his throat making it impossible to swallow; how his hands shook with violent tremors and were slick with a sheen of perspiration; how his legs felt like lead and putty all at once, threatening to resign their charges of supporting him; how his head throbbed and swam, oscillating in a disconcerting motion and caused him to lose all certainty of what was up and what was down; and how his heart lead a barbaric assault upon his ribcage that he was sure would leave him internally black and blue. He was going to throw up, or faint, or something.

And then Blaine was there, like the prodigal hero astride his white stallion, smoothly, easily, but in no uncertain terms telling the enquirer that Kurt's reasons for transferring as and when he saw fit, were his own, and that discretion should not only be preserved but respected, as he was under no obligation to share them. Then, just as smoothly he excused Kurt and himself upon the grounds of other engagements.

Suddenly, there was a hand upon Kurt's elbow, gently steering him away from the small group, and he guessed that must have been Blaine's too, for he was talking softly, reassuringly, but Kurt's ears were ringing too loudly to make out anything more than a burbled drone, like listening to sound underwater. He felt like he was walking through treacle … walking through treacle with dumbbells attached to his limbs.

Then, he was forced down into the turgid leather ridges of a grand armchair, which resided like sentry posts in the alcoves of the hallway. The distinctive smell at that time was particularly pungent. He put his head in his hands and waited for the strange symptoms to abate: dazed and bewildered. All the while Blaine's hand rested upon his shoulder, strengthening, comforting, consoling.

As soon as he gained lucidity enough to recover awareness of his surroundings, a bottle of cool water was guided into his hands and he was instructed to drink. Blaine's tone was level and calm, even if his touch was tense.

Kurt accepted it with a hoarse, 'thanks,' hoping to sate Blaine's concern, but the syllable was pitiful and weak even to his own ears and it betrayed the lie in his heart. He drank sparingly, still feeling a little out of sorts, before proffering the bottle back to its owner.

"Keep it."

Now that he was beginning to recover, he couldn't help but feel incredibly foolish and humiliated. His cheeks burned with the heat of embarrassment, a sensation that was only exacerbated by Blaine's fervent concern and scrutiny, which he was carefully avoiding: eyes trained upon the shoes he never would have freely elected to wear.

Blaine broke the pregnant silence first, his voice imbued with a knowing sorrow, as if seeing the events of one's own most darkest and despairing hours become another's, but feeling equally as helpless for the empathy.

"That's twice today you have almost blacked out on me Kurt …"

It was a while before Kurt realized that he was inviting him to talk and not in fact berating him. Blaine didn't demand an explanation from him, though he was clearly unnerved, he didn't march him down to the nurses station, though evidently something was wrong, he didn't even pressure him to elaborate, all his words were, were a promise, a simple invitation that if Kurt wanted to talk, then he wanted to listen. It was that understanding more than anything else which bolstered Kurt's will to speak.

Still staring purposefully at his shoes he dredged up his voice:

"I know, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." Then, in a harsher tone that was both angry and hurt as one, and full of self-hatred: "You must think I'm a coward. That I jump at every loud noise, that I can't even bare to speak his name, that I feel sick every-time I think of his lips against mine … and you'd be right."

Those very words were repugnant. He was fighting so hard to blink back the tears which would only serve to further reinforce his weakness, that he did not even realize how much his hands were shaking until Blaine, kneeling before him, took them in his own.

"Kurt, please look at me." His implore was so devastatingly melancholy that Kurt's valiant battle was lost. A warm and salty tear fell onto their clasped hands. He just felt so worthless; like he didn't even deserve to be comforted. But even in such a fey state of mind, he couldn't deny Blaine his one request.

Slowly and shamefully he looked up, the older teens image slightly blurry and distorted through the film of un-shed tears. Why did Blaine have to see him like this?

"No-body, _no-body_ could ever think that of you Kurt, so don't _you_ believe it for a second. You're incredible; so strong, so brave and so sure of who you are that you amaze me."

With the sleeve of his blazer, he reached up and so gently brushed aside the tears which were now falling thick and fast, as if they had no right to be there. Kurt almost recoiled, the contact feeling maybe a little too presumptuous given the current object of his distress. He forced himself to remember that this was Blaine, and that all he was trying to do was help and comfort in whatever way he could think of.

Kurt had been strong for so long that he had almost forgotten he could break, and now that he had, he couldn't find the will to rebuild his composure. Absently he considered how much of a turn off this must be for Blaine, but yet Blaine was still here, still trying to console him.

"Kurt, what Karofsky did was wrong." He recoiled at the sound of the name being spoken aloud, it was like a manifestation of all that he had come to fear. "It was. But you stood up to him; all by yourself you confronted him. Do you know how much I wish I would have had the courage back then to do the same? But instead, I let bullies drive me out of my school, like I was no-body, like I didn't even deserve to belong there.

"Bullies are one thing, Kurt, but what Karofsky is, is something else entirely more sinister. You are not a coward for removing yourself from his influence, when there is no telling how far he might have gone. To give up everything you knew and step into the world of the unknown, that takes courage which few people possess, and yet here you are."

"I just – I thought it would go away. All the hurt, all the pain, I thought it would all just disappear once I came here -" Kurt's voice broke. But it had not; not for safety, not for acceptance, not even for elation would the memory of Karofsky fade. It marred every good feeling he was capable of experiencing, warping them until they were nothing more than a blighted shadow of their true selves.

"These things take time." Blaine's voice was so gentle and so sincere, an encouragement for Kurt to find that strength which made him. "But I promise you it'll get easier, maybe you don't think so now – I didn't, I used to think there was no way to overcome the hatred and the horror of what happened – but sometime, somewhere down the line, you;ll look back and you'll see just how far you've come without even realizing it."

Finally, Kurt found resolution, stemming his tears with a few steady breaths, as had become tactic over the years to arrest them.

Blaine smiled at him, a gesture which spoke louder than a thousand choirs singing an ode in one single vast hall. It said; ' I am here for you, you _are_ worth something.' He tried to return it, but suspected his attempt came out more as a watery grimace.

"I hope so," he whispered. He had been unhappy for too long.

Blaine gently removed his hands, though he remained kneeled before Kurt. The instant they were freed, Kurt was hastily wiping his cheeks; the skin hot, rough and tight beneath his touch, already endeavouring to rebuild the walls which had crumbled in such spectacular public fashion.

He knew he must look awful, the red nosed, puffy-eyed combination was not one he could work with, but yet Blaine never looked at him with anything less than fondness and concern.

"But in the meantime, it's okay to let your guard down you know; to be sad if that is what you are feeling, to be angry or scared. No-one is going to think any less of you. Not even the best of us can be strong all the time, and neither should we have to be, sometimes we need to let people in, even if it is just to remind ourselves that we are not so alone in the world as we might think. All that you are feeling is completely normal, trust me."

Kurt gazed at him without really seeing him; those chiselled features, that thickly gelled hair which was both particular and suave. He pretended like the cruel words and actions of others did not hurt him, because if he rose above them, then they had no power to hurt those that he loved.

He still remembered how agitated and torn-up his father had been when, in the run-up to his and Rachel's diva off for the solo in Defying Gravity, he had received an anonymous call denouncing his son in no civilized terms. The failure he had seen in his fathers eyes then had hurt more than anything else in his life, but it wasn't failure in his son that got to Burt Hummel, it was failure in his ability as a parent, for he couldn't protect Kurt from everything, no matter how hard he wished. Kurt liked being different and he would never change, but how could he condone hurting his family? Did he really have the courage to reveal to them just how afraid he was?

"Kurt, this may seem like a stupid question, but please answer honestly." Blaine paused and waited until, with a sense of trepidation Kurt nodded his assent.

"You have talked with your family about what happened, haven't you? Maybe not the … the kiss, but everything else?" There was something in his eyes that Kurt did not quite understand.

"Dad and Carole sat me down and made me tell them what had been going on. Frankly I think it was harder on them than it was on me; dad paced a lot and Carole cried, though she tried to hide it. Finn sat in the next room the whole time; quietest I've ever seen him be," he said in a monotone.

That night had been almost unbearable. Sat at the dinning table opposite his parent and guardian, and under intense scrutiny being forced to relive the numerous incidents with Karofsky, which had so blighted and plagued the last two months of his school career, all the while witnessing the upset of his family, even as they continued to press him. That night marked the lowest point so far.

But no matter his depth of pain or fear whenever Karofsky had slammed him against the lockers and decorated his sides like a patchwork quilt, or else called him out in the middle of the corridors, it was only with embarrassment that he could retell them, as if his victimisation was something shameful to the ears of another.

All he had ever tried to do was to protect the people he loved, his friends, his family; blood and extended. His father had not long recovered from a serious heart attack for god's sake, he didn't need this kind of stress! And Kurt felt guilty for placing it upon him. Despite his best efforts, all he had succeeded in doing _was_ hurting them, for again and again they asked; "Why didn't you just come to us?" And he had no answer that would ease their pain, so he had remained silent.

"Did you talk about how it made you feel?" There was an air of knowing in Blaine's demeanour which told Kurt that he had already been second guessed to the contrary.

Then Blaine's hand was upon his knee, like a pledge of undertaking, and Kurt couldn't help but listen.

"Kurt, you can't keep all of this locked inside you; it'll just eat away at you until there is nothing left but bitterness. You _have_ _to_ talk about how you feel, because it's the only way you can move on. It's burying all that pain and pretending everything is fine which is causing you to react how you did before. Fear will always find an outlet, whether you want it to or not."

Blaine's expression was so sincere, imploring and devastated that Kurt's heart, fragile as it was, all but broke for him, as it seemed he relived the ghosts of his own past. Kurt wished that there was something he could say, some great, monumental sentiments that would remove the unrighteous sorrow of the beautiful boy.

"You put your faith in me once, and I would hope that even if you felt you could talk to no-one else, that you could at least talk to me."

He squeezed Kurt's knee bracingly, and then in a tone constricted with emotion;

"You didn't run away Kurt."

Kurt levelled his gaze with Blaine's, expression completely unguarded; full of truth and idolization. Hesitantly he reached out and touched Blaine's hand for an instant, before the gesture felt too foreign to prolong and said in absolute sincerity;

"Neither did you. Not really.

Blaine smiled even as a gamut of emotions alighted in his eyes. Kurt knew what those words meant to him.

The passed the rest of break in each others company, for which Kurt had no qualms.

Wes and David joined them in Biology; the lesson immediately preceding lunch. Their expressions were jubilant, if not wholly unsurprised, when they spied Kurt amongst their ranks. As soon as opportunity permitted, the two senior Warblers sidled over to the desk which Kurt and Blaine had to themselves, grinning broadly.

"Nice to see you not incognito, Kurt," teased David, slapping him on the back fondly as a manner of greeting.

Kurt appreciated the enthusiasm and affection behind the gesture at least, if not its abrupt execution and unintentional similarity to being roughly shoved against a locker. He discreetly glanced at Blaine in order to measure his response and almost disintegrated into a fit of laughter, for his friend looked positively horrified at David's cavalierness. David of course was oblivious "Couldn't keep away from us, eh?"

Wes' greeting, while no less warm, was more reserved and formal. He extended his hand and shook Kurt's heartily, saying:

"It's great to have you here at Dalton. You will be joining the Warblers, of course?"

Kurt frowned, was that a question or imperative? Was Wes always so upfront? What answer was the right one? He was torn, and remained so, until:

"Defiantly." Blaine was pledging succinctly from beside Kurt, his tone fond and full meaning, as he smiled first at his fellow Warblers and then at the younger teen.

"Now it all makes sense!" winked David and then – quickly affirming that they were still free to talk unabridged as Mrs. Bates made her fastidious rounds, giving repetitive renditions on the proper method of balancing protons and electrons within an atomic structure – continued;

"After scoping out the competition you realized who had the better chance at sectionals and hurried to ally yourself with the winning side. Cunning, my friend, I commend you."

"And I thought I was being so subtle," returned Kurt in mockery, adopting an appropriately chastised tone. He quickly noted down the answer to his fourth equation while he had it vaguely figured out. His three companions only barely managed to smother their laughter.

"Oh well, McKinley's loss is Dalton's gain, right, Kurt? We look forward to welcoming you to the Warblers," said Wes, who was the first to regain composure and decorum.

Kurt nodded eagerly. It would be refreshing to be part of a Glee Club that was actually considered 'cool,' even synonymous with rock stars, he recalled Blaine saying the first time they had ever met. Well, Kurt wasn't about to embrace the slack personal hygiene habits, waist length hair, and leather prolific wardrobe, but the status symbol was desirable none-the-less. It would also be nice to walk down the hallway with his head held high, and not be subjected to an almost daily facial, or to have his ideas shot down by the discriminate masculinity of his brethren. Maybe here his voice would be heard.

Wes and David remained at their table throughout the latter half of the lesson in a set up that seemed much too familiar to be a recent acquisition. They traded answers and workings out with each other, Blaine and himself in a way that Kurt found genuinely enthralling.

They did it not out of failing or neglect of their own questions – as he had seen Puck do upon numerous occasions under the threat of extreme bodily harm – nor because they had hit a stalemate which they just could not overcome. No, they just honestly designed to gain the absolute maximum from what the lesson offered. And even stranger still, was the fact that Mrs. Bates, who seemed a severe woman, allowed their collaborative methods, even looked upon them favourably.

So when Blaine enquired about his answer for question twelve, it was with a sense of inclusion and intellect that he hurried to emulate them.

Blaine, Wes and David were obviously close friends. It was evident in their mannerisms and the way they reacted to one another without even thinking. Even despite Blaine's orientation they remained unperturbed, completely open and relaxed in his presence. This phenomenon opened up a world of new and fascinating possibility's to Kurt. And then Wes' words echoed once again within his mind, as they had done countless times within the past week; '_Everybody gets treated the same, no matter what they are. It's pretty simple._' And they were not just words, they were hope.

He felt as if he knew Blaine more after a week than people who he had grown up with since kindergarten. Between them there had been no pretence, no need for hiding or shame, only complete honesty from the start. He found himself telling Blaine things which ordinarily he would have locked deep within himself, things which were too upsetting or frightening to confront alone, and he sensed that the same was true for Blaine also. But Wes and David, however, were a little more difficult to read.

For the most part, Wes seemed like a serious fellow. There was an air of charisma – different, more regimented and formal than the sort Blaine exuded – and morality about him that one couldn't help but respect. He regurgitated facts and dates with an alacrity that was both astounded and amused Kurt, though which he guessed must be a constant bane to his fellows, judging by the way Blaine and David muttered nothing more than disinterested acknowledgements at each trivial titbit. But for his ridgy, upfront brevity and his obvious love for regulations and procedure, he seemed sincere and kind-hearted. Kurt knew he would grow to like him, once he became accustomed to his somewhat brusque manner.

David on the other hand, was his complete counter-opposite, but yet their relationship seemed to work, and perhaps even better so, for their oppositional personalities. They were the extremities and Blaine was their middle-ground.

David was jocular and easy-going, though he still retained something of decorum and regulation within his nature. Warm and amiable in comparison to Wes' careful reserve, it seemed he could find a niche in any faction, and he exuded a sense of confidence which instantly put all those around him at ease.

Though Kurt lacked their histories and collective experiences, not to mention the depth of familiarity brought about by years of friendship, he felt neither intrusive nor undervalued in their companionship. It was … strange. So this was what the rest of the world was like: no cliques, just people.

The bell for lunch brought with its drone a flurry of activity around Dalton, but even the comings and going of nigh on two-hundred students was impossibly orderly.

Kurt watched with intrigue from the balcony which fronted their recently vacated classroom, and gave way to a curved-dome staircase on the right, as various groups congregated and dispersed en-route to different locations both on and off campus with calm deference. Meanwhile, Wes posed a question to Blaine, which seemed to leave the latter uncertain.

At McKinley, lunch was comparative only with day release at the zoo, except without the courtesy. Three hours worth of pent up energy had to expelled as riotously, rambunctiously and vigorously as was humanly possible or the day was wasted, an empty shell of missed opportunities. At least three times per week, some unfortunate soul was forced to wear the chef's special to class. But for an instant, Kurt thought that he almost missed the chaos, for this civilised conduct was unnerving.

Wes and David joined the throngs of moving students as Blaine converged upon him.

"See, I told you rest would be easy."

Kurt laughed, did anything ever come easy? He still felt like he was floundering; fighting to stay afloat in a temperamental sea of chance, but at least now he knew there were those he could count upon as friends, standing just beyond the shoreline, ready to cast him a buoy and reel him to safety should the waves prove too great to conquer. That was a comforting thought.

Side by side, they descended the ornate, light flooded staircase, which was set beneath a sky of translucent, opalescent panes. The very point which commemorated their first meeting. Kurt felt a thrill of elation tease hypersensitivity into his being; if only he had known then the course events would ultimately take, known how much the dark haired boy, who had stopped at his tentative plea – and then taken his hand, leading him to the impromptu performance, which had opened his eyes like no other – would come to mean to him in such a short space of time. How a million and one possibilities would come together and grant him a privilege he never would have dared dream.

On that despondent day, when he had just about given up on all hope of hope, he would never have even dreamed that once again he would tread its contours, much less with Blaine as a friend and an equal at his side. It just served to reinforce the fact that one could never predict the way things would pan out, life was a game as dependant on chance as any.

"So," said Blaine, immediately recalling his attention, "what do you feel like doing?"

Kurt stared at him blankly, they were going to lunch … weren't they?

"There's a really great coffee shop a few blocks down that's sort of been adopted as a Dalton hangout. Wes and David are heading there now as well as a few others, and I thought, if you are feeling up to it, we could grab a sandwich and head down."

Kurt felt a small swell of panic rise within him at the prospect of more introductions, and it must have shown upon his face for the next moment, Blaine's tone was soft and reassuring and completely sincere:

"Hey, no pressure. Okay?" He sought Kurt's gaze, and proceeded only when the younger teen nodded, "If you don't want to then we'll go to the canteen, grab some lunch and I'll take you on a guided tour and show you my favourite spots. Just the two of us. Everyone just wants to make you feel welcome, Kurt, even if they don't know exactly how to go about it."

Kurt was racked with indecision and guilt. There was something strangely comforting about Blaine's presence which made him grow stronger and weaker as one, something which lent him the confidence to let Blaine in further than he had ever let anyone else before, though at the same time it left him vulnerable. And though he wished it could just remain the two of them indefinitely, he knew it was wrong and selfish to expect that. Blaine had already sacrificed so much of his routine and usual company to help Kurt adapt, wasn't it only fair then, that despite his trepidation, he made a similar effort in return? After all, these were people who become his associates, maybe even friends. Would Kurt Hummel really let one bad experience rule him? Hardly! But he was, admittedly, uneasy.

Taking a deep breath, he forced the words around tight, uncooperative lips; "We'll go."

Blaine raised an eyebrow at his conviction, considering him thoughtfully, and Kurt read the same expression in his eyes as he had out in the parking lot; the same intense scrutiny, the same fruitless search. But it was not until that moment that Kurt realized: Blaine was looking for any indication of fear, any small expressionate flicker which betrayed the truth of what he asked as being too much, despite Kurt's assurances to the contrary. He couldn't honestly love him any more than in that moment.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He bolstered a smile, "that is, as long as I'm not intruding." Because wouldn't that be more awkwardness than he could bare with grace.

"Kurt," and Blaine was actually rolling his eyes, "you were _invited_."

Now they were moving through the convoluted hallways again, making towards the canteen and passing reunions as they went.

"Wes and David like you, you know? I admit, Wes can seem a little stiff and David overly forward, but they're both good people; maybe even two of the best. They took an interest in me at a time when I thought that no-one cared, and we've been friends ever since."

Kurt understood. Blaine wanted him to give these people a chance, not only because they were kind and honourable, but because he wanted himself and Kurt to remain close even after things had settled down, to have the same friendship group and share the same life, because he wanted Kurt to feel as confident and as comfortable in this accommodating haven as he now did; absolved from the misery of their collective and individual pasts. Blaine was trying to put things right, even though he bore no responsibility.

"There are, however, two other friends I'd like you to meet …" Blaine glanced at him cautiously, almost hating to insist, while Kurt swallowed down his aversion and nodded for him to continue, demonstrating that he was not about to reject the idea outright because of simple apprehension.

"They're in your Spanish class." Wait, Kurt frowned, he had Spanish this afternoon? He really had to start getting to grips with his timetable rather than relying on Blaine all of the time.

"Fifth period," Blaine supplied matter-of-factly, "when I'm afraid I'm in French. So since I wont be there, I think it would make you and me both feel a little better if you already knew someone, rather than having to face a room full of strangers alone. They're cool guys, and they're Warblers too."

Kurt relented his anxiety, Blaine had him convinced. Even just the way he talked about those closest to him left no doubt as to his unshakable belief and faith in them. What had Kurt even done to deserve the friendship of someone so amazing.

They entered the canteen, which was more reminiscent of the dining hall of some grand, hundred year old stately home rather than a commercial point. Kurt's jaw practically dropped. Yeah, still not accustomed to the splendour.

They shunned hot food for the easily transportable properties of the delicatessen counter; each purchasing a sandwich of their own preference, before Blaine led the way out of the building and across the grounds, breathing in the scent of the outdoors with relish.

For a while they simply ate in silence, mulling along at a dilatory pace in the autumn sunshine. Kurt had not realized just how alarmingly hungry he was until he took that first bite, and boy was it good! Whether it was his almost ravenous desire for sustenance which enhanced its flavour far beyond the limits of normalcy, he didn't know, but it was quite possibly the best sandwich he had ever tasted. Maybe even better than Carole's, and that took some beating.

The air was fresh and pungent as the walked; alive with the remnant scent of blossom, stirred up in the breeze – which was like fingers through their hair – and pine needles trodden underfoot. A sense of solace and peace pervaded all. A steadfast endurance, unaltered for nigh on two centuries.

While he ate, Kurt grappled with the enigma threads of a decision. Blaine had done so much for him, and what better reciprocal gesture was there than granting him the only thing he had asked in return, well, not even asked: that Kurt place his faith in him if he could in no-one else, that he trust him enough to lower his fortifications and let the older boy be privy to the turmoil and unrest within. He _owed_ Blaine that much and more, but it was so _hard_. Letting someone in was like admitting weakness, it boasted to the world that despite his best efforts, he _couldn't_ handle this alone. It showcased just how deeply words and actions he had brushed aside really hurt and outlined things about himself that he truly hated and was insecure about, things which those who sought to punish him could use to bring about his sure destruction. He didn't know if he could do it, but yet he knew he had to try, because Blaine deserved that much, at least. Courage!

With his mouth acrid and dry, his throat constricted and his voice demoted to a hoarse whisper as he tried to find the will against adversity, to utter the sound constitutions of a speech that would change his life, Blaine beat him to the punch.

"You look tired," he noted perusing Kurt's face in a way, which at any other time, would have caused the latter to swoon.

"I am tired," he forced out, and then before he could lose the nerve or else be betrayed by the fickle power of speech, closing his eyes, all the better to shroud the reality of what he was doing, he poured forth the secrets within his heart:

"Blaine I – You asked - … Most of the time I feel angry," he rushed out in a single breath, before hesitating for a moment, waiting for Blaine to question the sudden divergence of their conversation. However, it appeared his mind had made the necessary deductions because he remained quite. Unwillingly he opened his eyes again, sight being a necessity to guide him, though he kept them downcast. To look at Blaine's face would only make this harder. But the worst part was over, he had began at least.

"That's perfectly normal. What he did doesn't even bare thinking about. Ignorance is everywhere, and that misunderstanding breeds hate; fact, and though no-one should expect to meet with prejudice and discrimination, we all know that there is too much of it in the world to be avoided. It's the price we pay for being true to ourselves, I think deep down we reconciled that long ago. But calling you out for something he himself is too scared to admit, it's worse than cowardice."

There was a harshness to Blaine's tone that Kurt had never heard before, not even when recounting the nightmares of his own past. It altered the very diction of his words so that it was as if another had spoken them, and it was impossible to envision an expression which would aptly reflect such steeliness with only Blaine's refined features as tools.

Kurt slowly shook his head in contention, how he wished it were so simple.

"No. I hate what he did to me. I hate that the only way to make him stop was for me to transfer, and most of all I hate what he made me sacrifice in order to feel safe; my friends, my school, everything I'd known … but I don't hate _him_, and that's what makes me angry.

"I wish I did. I wish I hated his guts, because maybe then it would make all of this just a little bit more bearable, at least then there would be someone I could blame. In the beginning it was easy; some Neanderthal football player bent on making my life hell – like that wasn't a broken record. And I did hate him, more than I had ever hated anyone else.

"But after … that day, everything changed. Suddenly, I couldn't bring myself to hate him any more, because the truth is; I pitied him. I – I understood him."

Here Blaine made a noise of protest, and looking half angry, half devastated moved as if to spin Kurt around to face him and offer him stern words to the contrary, but at the last moment, he defected, seeming unduly distressed.

"I thought then that everything might stop. Stupid really. I thought maybe now that I knew what he was really trying to hide from the world by his bully tactics, the fear wouldn't be so bad, because after all he was running scared to. But I was wrong. The fear only got worse, _because_ he feared me. Bullying someone to cover up who you really are is one thing, but when you inadvertently hand that person the power and desire to destroy you, to see you suffer in just deserve for all the times you beat them down, then there are no lengths to which you wouldn't go to ensure that your secret was never exposed. In those last few days he was … terrifying. There was a wildness in his eyes which made them burn with frenzy. There didn't seem to be any limits to what he was capable of.

"You and I both know what it feels like to have this secret inside of you; to know you are different, but too scared to admit it to the world because of what people will say and do. If we were lucky in only one way, it's that we didn't have the pressure of expectation. We had the freedom to be who we wanted to be, I guess being an outsider has its perks after all … but being a jock, the prospect of coming out must be ten times worse, the stigma even more severe, and what better way to detract attention from your own sexuality than by persecuting someone who openly represents all that you are running from?

"I hate what he did in order to protect his secret, but most of the time, I'm angry with myself; for not being angry with him."

He felt like a huge weight had been lifted from him, a burden so integral and encumbering that he hadn't realized just how much it was strangling him until its hold had been severed. Self-torture was perhaps a shade greater than any third party brutality.

Slowly he raised his gaze to regard Blaine. A myriad of emotions played upon his hansom features, but there was something peculiar about their party, some straying elements which seemed incompatible with the general aesthetics. While there was sorrow, resentment, concern and pity, there was also … pride, awe, adoration. Then, his lips parted and animated themselves into Kurt's favourite smile, the one that touched his eyes.

"Kurt, you are honestly the most wonderful person I have ever met."

Abruptly, the air around them seemed over-warm and Kurt tugged uncomfortably at his collar.

"And I am honoured that you could confide in me; I know how difficult it must have been … but you have no need to be angry with yourself, _none at all_, in fact, if you should be anything, it's proud! It would have been so easy to hate Karofsky, but you chose to see past all the hurt, all the persecution and instead perceive the person beneath the bravado. The coward, ten times less than the man he pretends to be, and one hundred times less than the man you _are_. Kurt, do you have any idea how rare such empathy is? … You don't do you?" Blaine laughed out loud in disbelief at the taken aback constitution of Kurt's expression as he realized; "you just thought it was normal."

Then, his eyes became sincere orbs and he took Kurt's shoulders, forcing them both to halt and look only upon the face of one-another; as if nothing else in the world mattered – and in that moment, it didn't, for so much passed between them which could never be transcribed. For the first time in their lives, they were completely without reserve: open, vulnerable and yet somehow never stronger or more assured. Therein, they knew with a certainty to surpass their last breath, that their bond was fused, that they never again wanted to live without the other in their lives, that for their opposite they would do anything, be anyone.

But it would be a long while hence before they knew to what such a rush of feeling preluded. For now they had found a friend, more dear to them than any prior.

"Kurt, never resent yourself for not finding it in your heart to hate another, despite their crimes against you. It's a beautiful way to be."

Talk of more trivial matters occupied their attention after that. With each subsequent step Kurt took it felt as if the cloak of oppression which had so clothed him failed and faded, so that its impenetrable sheath was reduced to nothing more than a tattered rag. And from then on, he knew with the first real conviction: he was going to be okay. Somehow, Blaine had made everything right.

He laughed without reserve, feeling happier than he had in a long while. Maybe, just maybe, this was what he had been searching for.

The slightly harsh scent of freshly ground coffee, of warm caramel and cinnamon and of gingerbread straight from the oven welcomed him as he stepped inside the coffee shop. The moment was perfect, like a premonition of good things yet to come, and this, their inception.

He moved towards the counter with Blaine and in fervent anticipation ordered his favoured beverage, firmly dismissing Blaine's offer to buy it for him with an unyielding; 'No. It's my turn.' before his charming friend had uttered so much as a syllable. Kurt honestly loved him for the gesture, by generosity was a reciprocal street. Highly amused but compliant nonetheless, Blaine put away his wallet and ordered a medium drip with a dash of cinnamon for flavour.

While they waited, Kurt scanned the lunch time assembly for any sign of Wes and David, though coming up blank. The coffee shop attracted a varied clientèle, from the driven and highly strung business executives, mainlining caffeine upon a working lunch, to shy and endearingly hesitant first time couples making their public débuts, and every walk of life in-between. Though students were, without question, the most prolific archetype.

The sultry red of four feature walls refracted the sophisticated ambiance and allure the location boasted.

"They'll be at the back, over towards the right," Blaine supplied second guessing his motivation, before explaining with long-suffering fondness, "Wes is kind of a stickler for consistency, and we just generally tend to humour him, but it _is_ a good spot."

Taking their coffee's, Blaine led him to the regular spot, threading through the assembly of tables with practised ease until they gave way to long and luxurious benches backed against the perimeter of the walls, and in the roiling sea of colours, Kurt finally identified the semblance partnership of red piping on blue, which more than anything, picked the four Warbler's out of the crowd.

Instantly his gaze was drawn to the two strangers of the group, but while he considered them with hesitant interest, he found himself no longer daunted by the prospect of acquaintance, instead he relished it.

The long-haired brunette he thought he may vaguely recall, though he didn't know from where, but the blonde, who was slightly taller even when sitting, was completely unfamiliar.

David, who was the first to notice their advance, waved them over eagerly.

"Glad you could make it," he called exuberantly as soon as they were in earshot.

The other three boys broke off their conversation at his exalt and turned to welcome the newcomers as Kurt and Blaine took up seats at the now overcrowded table.

"Kurt, I'd like you to meet Nick Duval," Blaine indicated the brunette, who offered him a winning smile, "and Jeff Sterling," the blonde, who appeared uncomfortable with such stiff formality and almost uncertain of how to proceed, despite his Dalton etiquette.

Kurt liked him almost instantly, for there was something wholly sincere about him; hints of an awkward nature that he did not strive to hide, and which only further endeared him to his fellows. He was real, down to every erring and fault, they all were.

"Nice to meet you both, I'm Kurt Hummel."

And emulating Wes' professionalism in eagerness to make a good impression, he extended his hand and shook each of theirs in turn. Blaine sat proudly beside him like a guardian angle watching the moral victory of his charge.

"Nice to meet you too, Kurt," Jeff said, appearing to scrape together threads of decorum to compensate. His tone was forced even if his words were honest, and he must have realized for he offered Kurt a wry smile.

"So you're our spy turned ally!" Was Nick's offer of greeting, though there was warmth and affection behind it.

David dissolved into a fit of laughter, almost chocking upon his caramel latte, and even Wes chuckled, which made him seem more like the teenager he was, rather than the adult before his time. Jeff however, just appeared confused, though highly amused at the prospect. And through it all, Blaine sat grinning broadly, for this moment was perfect; his oldest friends conversing with his newest with the same familiarity and humorous banter as was reserved to amongst themselves only.

Kurt rolled his eyes. Seriously, how many people knew about that? One error of judgement before he even attended Dalton and he was never going to live it down. Great. He turned his attention back to the conversation feeling a little sour at once again being the butt of peoples jokes.

"What did I miss?" Jeff asked animatedly, with one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, that's right! You were out of town that day weren't you?" Comprehension altered Nick's jocular features, before they became once again reanimated with the prospect of a regaling, "It's a great story …" he assured his friend. And then seeming to fear that he had spoken out of term, Nick turned to Kurt, eyes sincere, truthful and sensitive and asked;

"Is it okay for me to tell him? Or …" He left the remnant of his question lingering in the air like a collection of tactile scenario's.

After a moment's pause, Kurt nodded once, much to Nick gratitude, for in that instant he had realized something: Blaine's words wrung true. Their laughter was not the effort of degradation or abuse, neither was it cruel and snide, like the mockery owed to a man who played the fool. No, they were laughing _with_ him, because his actions genuinely amused and excited them, because to them, the coincidental circumstances were ludicrous and therefore, worth many a retelling. After all, better to meet with humour than with anger. And though the tenor of his actions had never been geared towards amusement, Kurt couldn't help feeling a little pleased with himself.

Happiness was in taking a risk and gaining more than you ever bargained for.

They soon fell into broken snatches of conversation, constituted by interchanging parties. Kurt learned many weird and wonderful things about his new companions during this time, like: the fact that Wes, for reasons best known to himself, could not even abide the sight of sprouts, never mind the smell or taste; that Blaine and David had designed to set up a football team early last year, but astonishingly the idea had never gained enough support to fly; that Nick could sustain an intelligent conversation while in his sleep with frightening lucidity; and that Jeff had once broke his arm after mis-landing a back-flip in Warbler practice, and for two days afterwards tried to pass it off as nothing more serious than a sprain, fearing he might lose his solo.

They were the fond remembrances of a life shared together.

Kurt laughed until his sides ached with the motion and tears ran down his face. This was how life ought to be. For although it was the larger events which ultimately shaped its course, in the end, their revelations were momentary, because it was the little things; those which hardly seemed to matter in comparison, that mattered the most.

And even then he knew, thirty years from now he would still look back on this moment and smile, because he was living in the palm of significance, because that sense of completion of untarnished contentment would live on, even when the memory itself began to fade.

At some point during the music of vibrant conversation, Blaine engaged Kurt's attention. With a searching gaze, which Kurt was quickly become accustomed to as habitual, for Blaine was the only other person besides his father who refused to take him solely upon his word. Whether that showed understanding or uncertainty, Kurt knew not. Blaine asked:

"You're not uncomfortable are you? If this is too much then we could always leave and go somewhere quieter." And there he went, magnanimous as always. Kurt almost rolled his eyes in loving exasperation, there was a fine line between chivalry and martyrdom.

"No. I'm honestly fine." And for the first time, it felt like the truth.

He wasn't about to pretend that a single conversation concerning his feelings towards Karofsky's campaign of hatred and fear, had solved everything, far to the contrary, but it had lavished upon him more of a peaceable and healing effect than anything prior. So infusing as much gratitude as one was able when plying the crude craft of speech, he met Blaine's eyes meaningfully;

"Thank you."

"For what?" Blaine frowned lightly.

"For being there." And that was more than enough.

Watching Blaine, Wes and David in the absence of further knowledge, it had seemed that their friendship was complete, but it was only now upon adding Nick and Jeff to the suit, did he realize that in fact, something had been missing all along.

They brought a sense of joviality to the outfit, a light-hearted and beautiful nature, which Kurt found himself drawn towards, and which perfectly complimented the seriousness and reserve of their elders.

Each facet of the five boys friendship fascinated Kurt to no end, for it struck at profound and coveted levels which no other groups seemed to excavate. The five boys genuinely cared about each other, and were in essence more like brothers than strangers brought together by chance, and that was a rare thing to find.

It was in high spirits then that they all parted ways: Kurt and Blaine to History, Wes and David to Geometry and Nick and Jeff to English. Apparently, at Dalton, ten minutes early was the relative on time. Kurt tried to envision any of his New Directions brethren wilfully acquiescing to such an act of prompt punctuality … Maybe Rachel if she though she could gain something from it. And her clothes were generally the ugliest, so there was nothing to be lost on that front from the resulting slushy, in fact, they were the only ensemble which may benefit.

So by the time the afternoons sessions came around, Kurt was already pretty familiar with the routine. He felt reinvigorated after sipping his way through not one, but two grande no-fat mochas, so that those additional fifteen minutes which he had termed damnable not three hours ago now seemed unsatisfying and fleeting. He took notes quickly and efficiently, completed his assigned tasks with a good five minutes to spare – whereas before he had struggled to so much as meet the deadline – and even answered a question correctly when called upon, despite his initial panic.

It seemed that the one place where he had expected to stick out like a sore thumb, he actually kind of fitted in. Go figure.

Taking account of his new-found confidence, and in lieu of his first lesson flying solo – well, without Blaine at least – Kurt Hummel was desirous of a challenge. So after vacating their classroom, he abruptly drew up short, forcing Blaine also to stop and retrace his steps upon realizing that his words fell on deaf ears.

"What is it?" His voice was soft and confiding as if fearing a relapse of Kurt's earlier apprehension.

"I know you said you would walk me to my classes, and I really can't tell you how grateful I am, honestly; it's one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." He was rambling excessively and skirting the true reason for his action, but yet Blaine smiled at him as if he found the habit no less than endearing, patiently nodding Kurt to continue. "But I kind of wanted to do this one alone. Besides," he reasoned, "if you escort me then _your_ going to be late, and I refuse to allow you to get detention because of me, and at some point I'm going to have to find my own way around – can't rely on you forever! - so it might as well be done sooner rather than later." He drew in a much needed breath. Who exactly out of the two of them was he attempting to pitch this idea to?

"Kurt, you say it like you're asking my permission," Blaine laughed, "If that's what you want, then of course. But just so that you know; you can rely on me for as long as you want."

Kurt noticed the choice of the term, 'want' rather than the determinative 'need,' and for some odd reason it pleased him highly.

"Thank you."

"But just, one thing; call it over-caution if you will: text me when you get there? Just so I know you haven't gotten yourself horrendously lost." It was said in jest, but the request was heartfelt and genuine.

Kurt rolled his eyes without exasperation; spoken by almost any other person the conditioning would have affronted him and raised his indignation, but spoken by Blaine and he was nothing if not left tingling with the sentiment and eager to acquiesce; "I will. See you at Warbler practice?"

Blaine shook his head with an air of smugness that was interesting to observe; "I'll already be waiting for you before your class finishes." His confidence was bold. Kurt would hold him to it.

Languages were based in the north wing of the second floor, that much he could certify without the assistance of the map. For some indeterminable reason, his merge study of it that morning had imprinted the location of only two destinations upon his mind, though neither were the ones he had striven to commit; Languages and Music … Maybe he missed Mr. Schue more than he realized.

Kurt moved through the now familiar ground floor corridor with a residue sense of awe, far less pronounced than its initial practice; for his representation of it was already tinged with memories – they did not detract from the grandeur but rather culminated for the purposes of painting it less foreign and imposing. Kurt could not help the concentrated thrill of euphoria which coursed through him in that moment, because, for the first time, all of this seemed real, and not just the product of some heavily lucid and prolonged day-dream taken on a life of its own.

Then, the unexpected happened: time seemed to stall, and the filter of his vision constrict, until all he saw was one boy; a stranger so he thought, walking towards him upon a course which portended to collision. The stranger, however, never diverted, never even seemed to register the proximal danger.

When they were mere inches apart, the boy suddenly raised his hand in the universal gesticulative invitation for a high five, which was most defiantly not one that could be reinterpreted for the purposes of violence. Kurt was taken aback by both its intimacy and allusion, grinning broadly, he returned it with gusto.

And it was that simple act of a stranger – which would probably gain no greater thought from its exerciser – which truly convinced Kurt that this time, things were going to be different, things were going to be better.

He arrived at his Spanish class prompt and without incident, for which he heartily commended himself. As soon as he entered the vast and lavishly adorned chamber Nick and Jeff waved him over to them, and indebted to Blaine's compassionate foresight, he happily took a seat upon Jeff's right feeling highly triumphant. If his first experience of flying solo at Dalton was anything to go by, then he had nothing to be concerned about; for in him at that moment there was no fear, no trepidation and no desire to be anyone other than himself.

Quickly, Kurt pulled out his phone and began typing a message to Blaine before the Spanish teacher; a sophisticated woman of around thirty, with strawberry blonde hair tied back in a loose bun, saw fit to begin their lesson.

He got only so far as; 'Y_ou can relax now -_' before Nick leaned across and asked:

"What are you doing?" though his tone paradoxically alluded a certain preconception that Kurt almost laughed at. Nick grinned in return like two close friends sharing the fruits of an inside joke. Sometimes one of the most exasperating things about a person could suffer a dual allegiance and also be the most endearing.

"Blaine asked me to text him when I got here, since I wanted to find the way by myself, and also spare him a late detention." His explanation felt rather redundant for Nick and Jeff appeared to have already surmised the same course of events without the benefit of his account. Their smiles were of fond mockery as they spoke;

"You'll never meet a guy with better or more sincere intentions than Blaine -" Jeff began.

" - But you'll also never meet a guy with such an outstanding ability to worry -" Nick laughed, seeming to recall some fond remembrance.

" - In that way, he's kind of like the protective older brother you never had -"

" - But tell him from us that if he doesn't chill out, he's going to have wrinkles by the time he's twenty."

Highly amused by their double act rapport and concurrent speech, Kurt hastened to comply, and typed out the following message: 'Y_ou can relax now, I made it here without national incident. Nick and Jeff say Hi, by the way and wish me to tell you you'll get wrinkles by the time you're 20 if you don't 'chill out.' See you soon_.'

Spending a lesson in the company of Nick and Jeff, while different, was not an unpleasant experience. In fact, he would even go so far as to say that it was enjoyable, though there would always be that selfish part of him - so deeply ingrained into his constitution – that would forever desire Blaine at his side. Their general attitude and conduct were more relaxed and less intense than that of their friends, and its reprieve put Kurt at ease for it bore a semblance of familiarity, though their was no denying their competency and diligence when they set their mind to it.

In the brief intervals of idleness while sheets were being distributed, or else instructions outlined in an elegant script upon the board, they talked to him of the Warblers and other everyday matters contained within the conversations of friends. They traded glee club stories and anecdotes; the funnier, more ridiculous and more outrageous the better until all three of them were forcing their fists into their mouths and biting down hard to keep from laughing.

Nick and Jeff were both so alike, but yet so vibrantly different that their friendship was beautifully intriguing. They shared the same sense of humour, the same optimistic and enthusiastic disposition, the same interests, values and wants. But also they were completely individual and infrequently oppositional.

Even from spending such a brief period of time with them in their world, Kurt could already clearly tell that Jeff was the shyer of the two, the more hesitant, the more socially awkward. But as if in counter-balance, the more confident Nick appeared also to be the one who sought reassurance with more regularity, as if he doubted himself on a more profound level than Jeff – Kurt had witnessed it within half an hour of their introduction, the way he would call upon and receive Jeff's support by a single expression. Kurt had marvelled at how deep their friendship ran. And while Jeff faced every adversity with a calm level-headed consideration, Nick's nature was one more attune to immediate positive action.

If there were ever two people who temperamental fate designed to be brought together for the benefit of humanity at large, it was them. For nothing so perfectly in sync could ever be the bi-product of coincidence.

There was a charming innocence about them also, an inherent and coveted kindness which ought to be preserved, and whether they knew a world outside of song, acceptance, dance and unity, they certainly never showed it. Nick and Jeff were constant, a bond that would never falter, never fade.

Midway through the lesson Nick began rummaging through his bag; the slightly muffled clunk of various unfixed objects being unceremoniously disturbed and abused called Jeff and Kurt's attentions to him, as well as that of several other boys variously situated around the room. Finally, grinning triumphantly, he extracted three guild-wrapped discs; one red, one purple and one gold, proffering them;

"Want a toffee? They're really nice."

Foolishly honoured and eager to please, Kurt took the red one. Jeff, however, made no movement to either accept or decline – and should not that have aroused Kurt's suspicion – he just stared at Nick with mild though humorous aversion, before asking:

"How long have they been in there?"

Kurt immediately stopped unwrapping the toffee and looked upon it as a thing furtive and contaminated. Why would Jeff ask something like that?

"A day. Maybe two." He thought that Nick may have tried to sound indignant, but all he achieved was flippancy, though there was a sense of long-suffering resignation imbued in his words which suggested the remnants of one misfortune which still endured to his mockery.

"You eat one," Jeff challenged, still unconvinced, though the effect was slightly ruined by the smile which played upon his lips when he fought to be serious.

Nick rolled his eyes before unwrapping the gold confectionery and putting it in his mouth. He sucked it for a moment while Kurt and Jeff, allied, scrutinized him fastidiously for any betrayal of repulse, until, with a shrug, he announced; "Though it would have been funnier, I'm not feeling theatrics today; they're fine."

Taking him upon his word, they both unwrapped the creamy delicacies and spent the next ten minutes determinedly avoiding the sharp eyes of their teacher, while savouring every undulation of taste. Chewing at Dalton was not only forbidden but an action reprehensible, toffee never tasted so good as when it was eaten under forbidding.

Inconspicuously, Jeff leaned towards Kurt and whispered advice the former would most defiantly take to heart;

"Never accept anything out of Nick's bag without asking him how long it's been mulling around in there. If he hesitates, don't accept it. The first and last time he saw the bottom of that thing was when he bought it."

Kurt chuckled and resolved to introduce Nick and Finn at some point. His step-brothers backpack should come with its own hazard warning, and don't even get him started on the gym bag: toxic was not in it.

Nick just grinned completely unconcerned by his friends jibes. What sense was there in denying the truth? The only partial defence he offered was that: '_he had more important things to worry about than the accumulation of junk in his bag,_' and that, '_the only good thing that would come out him devoting time and effort to tidying it was that he would possibly find the elusive chemistry homework of two years lost_.' So all in all it seemed a fruitless endeavour.

Kurt's opinion of Nick was continuously rising, it seemed he was the closest thing to McKinley that Dalton had to offer, and his relaxed, happy-go-lucky attitude was both refreshing and homely.

"The worst was in Freshman year," Jeff was still whispering to Kurt, forcing his words around poorly suppressed laughter so that the former had to concentrate in order to understand the recollection. "He and Wes were trying out for their first solo's. Waiting to go in, Nick finds a packet of liquorice in his bag and in the spirit of camaraderie, offers half to Wes … It was six months out of date and closer to Darwinism than food. We honestly thought that we'd discovered a new sub-species. Wes accused Nick of trying to poison him in order to win the solo, and they've been friends ever since."

Kurt had to laugh, it all just sounded so completely ridiculous, but he could fully comprehend how the tale had remained such a firm favourite, even years later. He also silently resolved to decline anything that Nick might offer him in the future.

Finally stirred into regaining some of his blighted dignity, Nick leaned over to him and said so that Kurt and Jeff both could hear:

"Pfft, don't listen to him! He complains about my untidiness and disorganisation, you should see _his_ side of the room. Biggest mess you've ever seen." And here Nick adopted a suffering tone.

"It's a mess with _your_ stuff!" Jeff returned in amused aghast, swatting Nick's arm in high indignation.

"Oh, details." And with that, Nick refused to further engage the debate.

Somewhere within the complexities of convention defying pronunciations and quadrupedal consonant syllables, Kurt's thought's turned towards and lingered upon Mr. Schue.

It was actually astounding to what extent one person could positively affect the life of another, without either even really realizing it. The events of everyday living we take for granted as familiar routine – long since devoid of novelty and value – but truer words were never spoken than those which proclaimed: you never really know what you have until you lose it. Experience grants feeling, memory and longing, and though that which was renounced can never really again be reattained, it transcends into something oppositional to novel, but equally as potent: idealism.

Before Glee club, he had been a no-body – and yes, maybe he still was a no-body in the eyes of McKinley's larger student population – but for the first time in his life he had had a purpose, a direction, something to look forward to on the long downtrodden days when he began to question why he even bothered, something to aspire to, and even a fraction of that would have been better than school yard renown any day. Finally he had friends, a place where he fitted in (albeit the home of underdogs and eccentrics alike, but 'normalcy' was overrated anyhow) and their amassing treasury of trophies alone were testament that, despite the words of their fellows, they _were_ somebody.

And, at the heart of it all, was one Will Schuester. A man who showed faith and belief in a group of misfits and nurtured them until they became great. Under Mr. Schue's guidance Kurt had blossomed, not only as a better singer, but as a better person as well. And it was owed to Mr. Schue again that Kurt actually had the confidence to leave behind all that he loved as home, in favour of chasing a pipe dream, which offered veiled promises. Kurt wished he would have told him, even just once, that what he did was appreciated, but now his sentiments were to little and too late. His legacy was one of sarcastic remarks.

The end of the academic day brought with it a palpable sense of relief as well as an almost tactile alteration in the atmosphere as students hastened to their various affiliations and clubs. Their promptness, however, now born of eager anticipation rather than the regiment of procedure. While those with no such obligations stole the opportunity to relax and seek amusement in the company of friends, for the greater majority of the students boarded at Dalton during the week as well.

Kurt distractedly gathered his things and left the classroom with Nick and Jeff. He almost didn't trust himself to look. Would his elation be too crude and uncurbed if Blaine had once again managed to fulfil his near impossible promise … or worse still, would his disappointment be to great if he had not? After all, they had been released a minute or two early, and Blaine's class was located right over the other side of the building and a floor below. It was inconceivable that he should have made it there before he, Nick and Jeff got out. He worked him expression into a neutral cast, ready to face any eventuality with composure, but it was for little purpose, however.

The instant he emerged back out into the corridor Blaine was beside him: smug and as beautiful as ever.

Surprise took Kurt's breath away. How could he have ever doubted him? A feeling of warmth spread inside of him, like ingesting hot chocolate on a crisp winter night as a rush of feeling, incomprehensible but amazingly potent, assailed him.

Blaine fell into step beside him, while Nick and Jeff, mindful of the formers meaningful glare in lieu of their earlier jibe, hastened towards the canteen upon a fruitless mission, seeking to avoid any deserved retribution and laughing all the way.

"See, I told you I would be waiting when you got out." Though his tone was undeniably self congratulatory, his words imbued a more profound significance. They pledged: I will never let you down.

"You did," agreed Kurt, resigned, "but how …?" He highly doubted that the faculty of Dalton would willingly consent to humour the whims of good intentioned students, even if they were Blaine Anderson.

Blaine just winked in a conspiratorial manner before digressing the conversation:

"So how did it go? Were you okay?"

"Everything was fine. You worry to much," Kurt echoed Nick's earlier accusation as an afterthought, though in all honesty he found it incredibly endearing that Blaine would spare any worry upon _him_. Though undeniably Kurt had given him cause for it just within the last six hours alone. But the fact that Blaine cared enough about him to be concerned meant more to Kurt than the boy could ever know.

"Mhmm, so I've been told," he answered with mock indignation, raising an eyebrow, "wrinkles before I'm twenty, eh? Nick and Jeff indeed!"

Kurt laughed, he admired their nerve at being able to call the perfect figure out on anything close to resembling a fault. It seemed Blaine did too, for there was no real anger behind those eyes, just resigned amusement. But then his expression resolved into a vulnerable earnestness once again.

"I just want you to be happy, Kurt, and to try and make this transition as painless as possible, because … I really want you to stay."

Now it was Blaine's turn to blush, and while Kurt abhorred the blossoming hue of embarrassment when it alighted upon his own countenance, he nothing short of adored it upon Blaine's.

"I am happy." He didn't trust his composure to withstand the action of answering the latter part of Blaine's utterance, so instead he smiled, forcing into submission the dizzying swell of emotion, which those simple words had stirred within him. Blaine answered the gesture with abashed gusto.

"So, my first Warbler's practice. Any words of wisdom?"

Since his inception sentiments of impossible longing had been aroused by a song, it seemed only fitting that the realization of that dream was certified by one too.

That was what music was: emotion. The most euphoric elation which exceeded the bounds of a single living organism, or the most crippling anguish which seemed rapidly to destroy those it touched, and everything in between: an experience told through the words of one, but felt in the hearts of one million. It rose the dull-drum days into stolen minutes of vibrancy, and lent an essence of enhancement to every sensation or action it touched. Music spoke as no other medium did, for though its words could tell one tale, the shy story which lingered within its very constitution was an interpretation personal and individual to all. And hearing the Warbler's rendition of '_Teenage Dream,_' even in the midst of ignorance, had spoken to Kurt: had urged him to believe.

It would be an understatement to say that he had been looking forward to this moment his entire life.

"Just be yourself, and no-one can fail to like you. It is the best advice any person can give another, even if it is the most clichéd. But don't be nervous, I'm watching out for you." And who could feel uneasy knowing that?

Even after just a handful of hours spent in its ambiance, Kurt had grown sufficiently acclimatized to his surrounds that he could welcome the ground floor corridor as an old friend and not an indifferent though beautiful stranger. His thoughts and emotions were so vastly oppositional to those which had prevailed upon him just that morning. He traversed its length with his head held high, no longer unnerved by the prospective glances of his fellows – in fact, he even went so far as being able to recognise a handful of faces from within the moving throngs of preoccupied students.

It was hard to tell who exuded more pride in him: himself or Blaine. But, humbled by recent events, all he could think of was that he couldn't have asked for a better conclusion to such an exceptionally turbulent and revelational day.

Outside the inhospitable, double-door feature, whose inward room shared allegiance to both a study area and the Warbler's officially, unofficial base, Blaine halted and turned to Kurt with equal parts excitement and regret before entreating him:

"Wait here."

"Huh?" Kurt was confused and instantly disinclined, and had it been anyone other than Blaine who had urged him to remain without, he would have cast aspersions upon their motives. As it was, he trusted Blaine, even if his implore made him more than a little uneasy.

"Humour me," Blaine begged reassuringly, before explaining; "the Warbler's live for ceremony and tradition, or haven't you noticed. Either way they just want to give you your moment in the spotlight, and assure themselves that the demands of formal induction have been observed – you get used to it. Just give them a few minutes to be diplomatic and then they'll call you all, you don't even have to do anything."

The argument was compelling, but Kurt wasn't entirely convinced. He frowned, preferences notwithstanding, he really wished that he could instead walk in with Blaine, it would show an act of solidarity and reinforce his right to be there, even if he wanted to deny the comfort it would award. But this wasn't McKinley now, there were protocols which had to be observed, whether he liked them or not. Suddenly Blaine's fingers were upon his brow, tracing the creases which had settled there until they were smooth again.

"Hey, don't worry so much, or _you'll _be the one with wrinkles." Blaine chuckled, while Kurt seriously considered the horrific prospect and resolved to abstain from frowning for the next ten years at least.

Moving towards the double doors, the older teen hesitated for a second, as if searching for some inspirational sentiment to share and so relieve Kurt's remnant disquiet. Drawing a blank he shook his head, mildly frustrated, and then Kurt was left alone.

He would have sat and waited with patient decorum, as was undoubtedly Dalton custom, but for a restless anticipation in his soul which condemned such idle composure in the face of wonderful possibility, and so he paced. Each time he would pause at an inch or two distance away from the doors, poised and listening, before turning away a moment later and retreating as if shying away from the transcendence; like a thousand opportunities observed and defected.

Now and then, people would pass him, strangers for the present; looking harried and sufficiently admonished for their tardiness, despite the fact that the meeting was clearly not in session yet, given the generous clamour of multiple concurrent conversations.

Kurt felt all the impatience of a child upon Christmas morning when forced to watched everyone else open their gifts first before his turn came around. It was unbearable.

It may have been five, or maybe even ten minutes before a voice, distinctly similar to Wes' called the Warblers to order, though it felt considerably and tediously longer. At this occurrence, Kurt couldn't help but laugh, trust Wes to boast the voice of reason in the relative pandemonium; or as close to such as the couth and reserved Dalton ever veered.

With ardent rapture, he positioned himself just behind the inward swinging doors, more than ready for his moment in the spotlight, his opportunity to shine, to step up and become the sensation he was always destined to be.

"And now, let's welcome our newest addition to the Warblers: Kurt Hummel."

The doors parted and there was Blaine, his expression radiant with joy as he literally and semantically welcomed Kurt into the heart of his world.

Each of the variously situated Warblers applauded, though Kurt barely even registered the sound as he took in his surroundings with liberal ecstasy. The teak panelled walls; the inescapable presence of turgid leather couches; the open hearth, nothing beyond a feature at the present; the leather-bound volumes which congregated in the recessed alcove shelving; the finicky portraiture and ostentatious adornment which were a perfect compliment to the sash curtains and the mid-eighteenth century bays that were so prevalent; and the fervent ardour which embodied the Warblers themselves.

Even in his initial instance of regarding it, he already knew with unshakable conviction that this was where his heart did and would always lay. It was as if something had been missing for his entire life thus far; a longing which was only realized once it was sated.

As Blaine sidled back to his seat perched upon the arm of the forward facing couch with an expression which could only be described as eager mischief, though its constitution was misleading, Kurt hastily searched for the faces of his friends. He found Jeff's almost instantaneously, situated beside Blaine's, and Nick's beside his in turn.

Wes and David sat apart from the rest of their brethren, in the company of a third who seemed vaguely familiar. They occupied a firm, resolute and unyielding table, which seemed to encompass the focal point within the room.

Kurt wondered at the distinct division, and even as he noted the instruments presence in Wes' hand, the latter brought down the augmented gavel with two sharp raps, restoring order with an authority little observed in adolescence. Was Wes presiding the meeting? David too? Was that event somehow less ludicrous in action than in thought?

"And our oldest tradition for our newest Warbler: an actual warbler." Wes' tone was both relishing and somewhat confiding as he gestured towards where Blaine sat. Still with his mischievous grin as well as an air of self satisfaction, he produced something from beyond the regions of the couch to which Kurt was blind, and placed it upon the stooped coffee table, saying as he did so:

"Kurt, meet Pavarotti." He accordingly followed Blaine's gaze downwards.

There, within the iron-bound contours of a cage, frolicked a livery cannery of beautiful tincture. Even as Kurt watched him, numb with astonishment, the little bird hopped nimbly from perch to perch, seemingly unduly delighted with the amount of attention suddenly lavished upon him.

Kurt fell in love all over again. Pavarotti was really his? _Really_? He was too indebted and taken-aback to even communicate the sheer bulk of his gratitude in any form of gesture beyond a thousand watt smile … he had never had a pet before.

"This bird is a member of an unbroken line of canneries who have been at Dalton since 1891," explained Wes, evidently eliciting great delight in having such a large audience upon which to deliver his meticulous facts, (and much to the general disinterest of many of those gathered). "It is your job to take case of him, so he can live to carry on the Warbler legacy."

All the time while Wes was speaking, Blaine had been slowly moving towards him. He now presented Kurt with the caged Pavarotti, though for all his elation it would seem that the presentation was the other way inclined. As soon as Kurt took hold of the cage, feeling all the weight of responsibility it entailed, Pavarotti tweeted happily, as if he knew the love and promise of his owner.

Happiness was in the joyful receipt of surprise, and in the affection of animals who knew and cared not for the hardships of our world.

"Protect him," charged Wes, "that bird is your voice."

Elated beyond call or measure by the situation, Kurt joked:

"Hey, I'll bring him to work with me. Weekends I volunteer to stray cat rescue." He laughed nervously when the Warblers as a whole just stared at him blankly and a few shifted in preoccupation. Was it just him or did the room grow uncomfortably humid in that moment? Blaine's confusion was the least severe, however, but it was also tinged with some additional emotion that Kurt could not quite categorise. It rivalled pity, but in a form less pronounced.

"It's at the bottom of a coal mine," he endeavoured to clarify without success. His attempt at humour had bypassed laughable and dived painfully into the territory of mortification. "No, that was a joke. I don't really work at a coal mine."

He had never been more grateful than when Wes brought down his gavel and recalled the attention of the Warblers, though Blaine's eyes alone still lingered upon him. And that was exactly why Kurt Hummel was a man of sarcasm and a as a general rule shunned jokes.

Witnessing Wes and David in such a presumed position of power equally intrigued and amused Kurt, though undeniably there was a diplomatic root in their souls which meant that they were well suited to it, and accordingly they met the opportunity with only the greatest deference and professionalism. Kurt wondered whether those specific traits he had previously noted were born from the regularity of such an indulgence or were merely the inherent founding blocks of their characters.

Unable to demonstrate favourability and familiarity in such a setting, Wes and David conveyed their friendship only in glances and demur gestures, which to any ignorant of them, would paint the pair aloof and stand-offish.

"Let the council come to order," commanded Wes, "today we discuss the set lists for sectionals."

Wait … what?

"Council?" Kurt enquired nonplussed to the room in general. It was Blaine who was poised with an answer.

"We don't have a director. Every year we elect three upper-classmen to lead the group. But don't worry, we all get a say." Now there was ingenuity at its best!

This was his moment to be heard; to have his voice rise up from the bowels of oppression and pronounce his mind.

"Fantastic! I have a lot of ideas. Warblers, if I may?" When no-one objected, which was in itself a historical moment worthy of monument, he continued in high rapture. "Now, I can't deny that the Warblers vocals are absolutely dreamy." At this point, he tried and failed not to look at Blaine, who was gazing at him intently again, expression inscrutable.

"But, I believe our set for sectionals this year should have a bit more showbiz pinage. I think we should open with Rio by Duran Duran."

And that was as far as his moment in the spotlight and outspoken opportunity progressed, for his grand and ardent dreams were reigned in, albeit regretfully, by David:

"Er, the council is responsible for song selection."

And this was proceeded almost immediately by a secondary strike from Wes, which, when ignoring the earnest apology in his eyes was as diplomatic as it was patronising:

"But we appreciate your enthusiasm, Kurt. It'll come in handy one day when you're sitting behind this desk."

Kurt forced his features to take the shape of an agreeable smile, when really he was dying inside. In a day of extremist highs and lows this was the worst, and all the good which had been attained even in the absence of intention suddenly ceased to matter, because everything was a lie.

His dream and ideal had fallen through, like the sales of last seasons collection; empty promises of something better, resolved into dust. What had only ever filled him with fervent elation and desire now filled him with aversion and betrayal. This was the one place on earth he was _meant_ to fit in, so why was it not all that it had boasted? Why once again was he left wanting out in the cold?

"Now, I propose we do our entire set at sectionals in eight part harmony."

Shamefaced, Kurt took the last available seat next to an unfamiliar boy – whose shaggy black hair was tamed into submission only by copious amounts of hair gel – feeling slightly numb.

He was like a sailing boat idling in the still waters, lost without its guiding winds, and presented an image similarity as despondent.

He endured the rest of the meeting in an almost resolute and admonished silence, only raising his voice to echo the consensus of the mass. He determinedly avoided meeting the eyes of any of his friends, not wholly convinced he could yet muster an indifferent air. Instead he lavished the bulk of his attention upon Pavarotti, familiarising himself with the cannery's habits. His very colouring screamed optimism, and it was that tiny bird, _his_ tiny bird, which more than anything mollified Kurt's mood.

Expectation usually downgraded the actual reality. It was as true a fact as any.

At McKinley, the entire New Directions constitution and angle had been founded upon the principles of individuality and distinction; it openly celebrated difference. Glee club was a place where the various outcasts, eccentrics, underdogs and fallen idols alike found sanctuary, acceptance and understanding in the lyrics and beat of a song. New Directions was a group of opposites which should not have worked in harmony, but somehow did. As vibrant, temperamental, unpredictable and inspirational as life itself.

While at Dalton, everything was geared towards regiment, similarity and unity. The Warblers felt with one heart and sung with one voice; a choir seamlessly bonded. Fostered upon ceremony and tradition, there was something enchanting about them, a paroxysm of youth meets elder values. But in their team-ship orientation, no one man spoke louder than his collective fellows; the individual was rendered obsolete to a system of just democracy.

Kurt did not know which approach was superior, if any. All he knew was that it was one more turbulent alteration that he had to weather, and it was better done in good humour than ill.

However, the fact that the Warblers existed as a self-elected student council independent of a director amazed him. He almost laughed to think of the headaches attempting to implement such a system at McKinley would ensure. Without Mr. Schue's calm, unwavering and reasonable guidance, the New Directions would soon disintegrate into a one woman show. For, after all, Rachel was self-assured enough to believe that she could compensate for all 11 absent team-mates and still deliver a superior performance. And without Mr. Schue, what possible hope was there of reigning her in to be at least a semi team-player.

He was almost glad when Wes called the meeting to a close. It was now five thirty, and any reserves of energy beyond that necessary to see him and Pavarotti safely home, were thoroughly in arrears. But through his sudden sense of consuming languor prevailed one single, momentums thought: he had done it.

Irrespective of its turbulent and temperamental nature, he had completed his first day at Dalton – a day which he had regarded with unequal parts elation and trepidation. From this point onwards, cosmic law pervaded that things could only get easier. Each day would bring with it greater and greater familiarity until Dalton became as habitual as McKinley had been.

Nick and Jeff called their parting farewells to him across the benign departing clamour of 30 students. They were, however, lost from sight before Kurt had opportunity to return the sentiments in kind.

Ensuring that Pavarotti's cage door was firmly secured (his overprotective feelings towards the little bird already taking hold) he sought Blaine out of habit, before executing his own and more semi-permanent departure.

The dark haired boy had been approached by Wes and David, and despite the clear distraction and preoccupation which marked his person – for Blaine's gaze darted rapidly back and forth between his two oldest friends and Kurt with tame desperation – he could neither ignore nor dismiss the desires of his temporary superiors while still present in their jurisdiction.

Resigning himself to Blaine's engagement, he waited until their eyes met, and then raising a hand, mouthed the words; "_I'm going home now_."

It was an unspoken quirk and consensus between them that they never actually said goodbye to one another. For that word alone, when shared between them in the silence, rung with a termination and finality which daunted them both. Instead, they left their interactions suspended; wanting of closure – like a statement poised upon the terms of an ellipses, because it necessitated a subsequent meeting. Goodbye, to them, was so much more than a word.

The desperation which Blaine exuded in his shifting movements only became more ardent.

Kurt walked with a pronounced stall in his steps, his pace dilatory to the last – an action which granted Blaine ample opportunity to catch him up, though without wholly betraying the motive of his action, for clearly there was something that the latter wanted fervently to say. He had never seen Blaine look so tortured or denied before, it was like witnessing the sadness of a god, and it accordingly filled him with pathos.

It was upon the same commemorative stairwell, which Kurt was honestly beginning to think reserved a spark of magic for the two of them discriminatingly, that Blaine's call echoed from behind, a compound of relief and repentance.

"Hey, Kurt. Wait up!"

Kurt turned to face him, feigning surprised innocence of his scheme to grant Blaine his desired audience, as the older teen hurried to fall into step beside him.

Blaine's expression was apologetic and when he spoke it was with doleful sympathy, as if somehow, everything was his fault.

"I saw that glee club was hard for you today; having your ideas shot down like that." And there he went again with that piercing and frankly alarming intuition, which Kurt still had not decided whether to hail or damn. Was it possible to have a friend who knew you better than you even knew yourself?

"It's just a different energy in there," Kurt answered in his best effort of diplomacy, resigned to the fact. Then, in attempts to placate and reassure; "not better or worse. Just something I'll have to get used to."

And he would, eventually, just, the necessity fractionally sullied his perfect representation of Dalton. But, had he honestly expected everything to just fall into place? The earnest answer to that was yes, as folly as such a dream was, but realization was prompt: even the greatest things required a little work.

"We recognise that," and there was a perceptible alteration in Blaine's tone, an eager remedy to Kurt's disappointment, "and we have a tradition at this school of rewarding a student with a good attitude, so we would like to invite you to audition for a solo."

By this point they had reached the bottom of the stairs and Kurt stopped abruptly. Was it actually possible? His eyes glittered like two independent galaxies bursting into life and a brilliant smile broke across his features like waves enveloping the beach at the prospect, an expression Blaine echoed without restraint.

So his ideas had been shot down, albeit more diplomatically by the Warblers though with no less finality than the New Directions, but all of that would pale in comparison if he could just secure himself that elusive solo. He felt the necessity to clarify;

"For sectionals?"

"For sectionals," Blaine confirmed sagely, and then slightly conspiratorially, and as always moved by Kurt's joy, "sing something good." Because Blaine was rooting for him.

And with that, he walked off, leaving a perfect moment in his wake; turgid with a thousand things left unsaid.

Happiness was in the beautiful boy, whose smile, voice, touch and scent consumed Kurt's every straying thought in moments of idleness. How his eyes would blaze like victory beacons in the night every time he laughed. How his selfless affection nurtured Kurt's confidence and sense of worth until he again found something to believe in. And how Kurt hoped against adversity that he could one day call Blaine his own.

There were no words to describe the depth of Kurt's elation in that moment, because suddenly his faith was restored. Almost instantly his heart settled upon the devastatingly sombre and haunting, though indisputably classic, _Celine Dion_, _My Heart Will Go On_. If any song was certain to win him a solo it was that.

But though he exuded a long rehearsed and well perfected brash overconfidence in his ability to perform; even conquering the stereotypical male/female vocal segregation, the reality of the matter was; he had given very few soloist, public performances. And though he tired to convince himself otherwise, there was a prominent difference between backing vocals, and bit parts in group numbers and leading an entire choir in solo. So maybe, as loath as he was to admit it, he would benefit from a little help.

Though they were marked opposition by circumstance, he could never truly regard the New Directions as anything less than favourable friends who fate had chosen to part. And though his loyalties, without compromise, were owed to Dalton and the Warblers, that did not meant that his heart wasn't torn both ways.

Therefore, he felt no guilt, betrayal or foul play in seeking the help of Rachel Berry; Mrs. Solo Sensation herself. She may have been the most infuriating, insufferable, self absorbed, conceited and overbearing person he had ever had the misfortune to spend an extended period of time with, but there was no denying her talent, drive and ability to execute ovation-worthy performances, and it was those latter credidations that he would call upon in attempts to secure himself a solo.

Besides, she wasn't _all_ bad. Kurt had glimpsed in her, on infrequent occasions, an ember of some better nature – far more deeply rooted than the prominent spoilt, selfish attitude synonymous with endorsed only child syndrome.

Happiness was in the prospective achievement of forging a dream into solid reality.

Reaching his prize Escalade, Kurt strapped Pavarotti's cage as securely as he was able into the back seat. The Cannery tweeting happily all the while.

Then, in a moment of impulse and feeling a sudden, desperate need for contact interaction, he pressed his finger against the intersecting gaps between the slender bars, designing to convey love and solidarity. To his surprise, Pavarotti eagerly sidled over, and without hesitation, tapped the hard, curved exterior of his beak warmly and affectionately against Kurt's finger a few times. Kurt didn't exactly understand the meaning of the gesture, but the birds trust made him grin nonetheless.

"Let's take you home, huh? Though what Dad and Carole are going to say about you I don't know." He bit his lip nervously, wondering how best to pitch his plea for Pavarotti's habitation. He had a little excess of an hour to string together the solid threads of a golden defence.

Kurt coaxed the engine into a purr while surreptitiously inserting his favourite CD of 38 Broadway classics to see him home.

The alteration which had occurred in him within the frame of a single day was astounding, and only truly intelligible to the stolen moments of repose. He had arrived at Dalton just that morning; angry, scared and oppressed by the sheer encumbering burden of Karofsky's threats and actions, which pierced and abused him in a way no predecessors had. The Kurt Hummel who had first walked through those doors into society had been a mere fraction of his true self, a shadow image.

But now, as he pulled out of the courtyard and onto the highway, he did so as a man reborn, a soul so much greater than before. A new chapter in his life was at its dawning, full of promise.

Dusk descended a fraction prematurely that night, so that barely 20 minutes into his journey, he found it necessary to put on the headlights. Despite the chill of the encroaching nigh, he drove with the window three quarters down. The frigid breeze tousling his hair and playing upon his cheek, as well as the fluctuating tempo and powerful vocal and instrumental partnership were indispensable elements in staving off the exhaustion of a night passed without sleep, which was zealously imposing itself upon Kurt.

For the greater part, his journey was uneventful. The roads were quiet and devoid of fellow commuters and the guiding lights of houses were sparse. Darkness seemed to warp the environment, as things which he had noticed for their beauty or quirky composition that morning, in shadow adopted a furtive air.

He pushed past the speed limit, but even then the sameness of his mutable surroundings gave the impression that he was hardly moving at all. At least the drive would be more pleasant in the summer he coaxed himself.

Things soon changed, however, when he neared the Lima interstate, which was eternally heavy with traffic; not exempting tonight. He was shepherded into a writhing sea of lights, with the gaze of glaring red eyes blinding him, unblinkingly from infront and bright bursts of white light from the rear which were reflected in the convex mirrors, rendering them useless.

The interstate was backed up for over a mile: the worst Kurt had ever seen it, and was inciting an epidemic of road-rage if the incessant aggravation of a plethora of horns was anything to go by.

Making a split second decision, Kurt pulled off the interstate and into the parking lot of an all night convenience store, whose lurid and garish colours would have at any other time rendered it completely uninviting.

Lusting for sustenance, he braved the gathering cold, vowing thereafter to wait for a sufficient lull in the flow of traffic to take advantage of.

He purchased a coke, having sated his desire for coffee earlier in the day, and returned eagerly to the warmth of his car.

He had only taken so much as a single, grateful sip before the aggressive thrumming, which had unnerved him just that very same morning, sounded once again from the interior of his messenger bag.

He retrieved his phone without concern; the screen blinking into life at his gentle coaxing. One unread message: Blaine. That same thrill of anticipation which seized him upon even just witnessing the other boys name, had only increased in fervency, not diminished in satisfaction by their day spent together. Elated, he lost himself in the words:

_' I really enjoyed having you here with me, Kurt. Hopefully today didn't go as horribly as you imagined.'_

Kurt grinned in-spite of himself. All things considered, his day had not been horrible at all. Dalton defiantly had its perks.

But yet, there remained one thing missing; a prominent absence which made his heart ache with its omnipresence, and coerced every good thing into further echoing its loss. All relief and bliss wanted for was a single phone call, but uncertainty enveloped its reception. How shaken had they inadvertently left their friendship?

Throwing caution and hesitancy to the wind – for he would readily swallow his sour tasting pride and grovel unashamedly if the situation demanded it, anything to ensure that things returned to how they used to be – he called the first number on his speed dial. The one woman who would always own his heart.

She answered on the fifth ring, as happy and verbose as ever;

"What up?"

"Mercedes …" he ventured, pleading to any cosmic force which might be sympathetic to his plight, that she would not put the phone down on him, too affronted by his silence over the past week. Maybe he deserved to be on the receiving end of her razor sharp tongue and sassy attitude, he knew he did, but the prospect of suffering an intentionally wounding brush off with little immediate hope of redemption was to much to bare.

"_Oh my god! Kurt, hey!_" And just like that, the bitterness of their parting was rendered obsolete. Friends held grudges, but best friends would forgive each other anything. "_How are you? Did your first day go alright? What was it like being in Dalton as an actual student? I want a full hour by hour breakdown, and don't skimp on the details! So I'm guessing you spent the day with Blaine, huh?"_There was an inflection in her tone, and even in the lurid dankness of the car park he could almost see her smiling.

"_We all really miss you, you know. Glee club just isn't the same without you there, it's like everyone has given up or something, like all our spirit left when you did. Sectionals are going to be tough; but we'll be cheering for you and the Warblers though, so don't worry. We still love you even though your technically our opposition. And we are going to make sure the Warbler's know that they only have you on loan." _

Then, her tone changed and became sad and regretful, and he wanted so badly to tell her that the whole thing had been a big misunderstanding and that he was coming back home to McKinley, but the truth was, no matter how much he missed her, he could never go back. This was his life now, and the only option he had left was to find some way to make his two half words into a correspondent whole.

"_I wish you could have stayed, Kurt, but I know you have to do what's best for you. I guess I'm trying to say that, as long as you're happy, then I am too." _But was not that happiness a lie, dependant as it were on the success of failing of another?

"_The guys say that the owe Karofsky a good – what was the phrase again? ''working over.'' Mostly I think it's all talk, but the sentiment is there, they care about you,even if they don't always show it. Anyway, I'd still hate to see what they'd do if Karofsky ever pushed to far, I'll keep you posted. Puck and Sam are leading the revolution. But enough about all that, come on, tell me about your day!"_

God, he had missed her. He was sat in the dismal isolation of a roadside car-park, cold, tired, hungry and further delayed in an already sufficiently over-lengthy journey home … and yet he felt like the luckiest man alive, simply just because they were talking, because this affirmed, once and for all that nothing would ever come between them. His throat became tight with emotion, making it difficult for him to indulge her wish.

"I'm fine. Dalton was … Dalton was amazing! Merc, you honestly wouldn't believe it!"

And he then proceeded to describe just some of the wonders he had observed, with appreciative sounds from Mercedes, all of which only left him with the conviction that he had not even yet touched the surface.

"Yes, I spent the day with Blaine," his smile almost lit up the darkness "... I think – I think I might be falling in love with him." He felt momentarily dizzy at the admittance, for she was the first person he had found the courage to confide his most desperate yearning in.

The resultant shout of exaltation almost made him drop the phone in fright, and even five minutes later she was still sagely reiterating how she had known it all along. He honestly adored her!

But as their conversation once again turned in answer towards McKinley, Kurt felt the familiar burning pangs of grief bleed additional diffusions of water into his eyes, flooding his sight. And even his own ears discerned the distinctive quivering notes within his voice which betrayed his fight with emotion.

"Yeah, I wish I could have stayed too. Leaving everyone behind, it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And, I'm sorry I never said goodbye to you – I just couldn't bare it – and that it seemed like I pushed you away, when I never wanted you to be in my life more. I was being stupid and selfish and -"

"_In love_," volunteered Mercedes in a tone of understanding resignation, as if that simple state both explained away and excused the actions which he himself, upon reflection, regretted.

"Yeah," Kurt allowed. " I _am_ happy. I am. I mean, Dalton's great and spending time with Blaine is amazing, but everything is just so different that half the time I don't even know where I stand … I – just – kinda … I wish that it was just you and me against the world again, s-som-somtimes." His voice broke.

"_Kurt, are you crying … ?_" She sounded as if she was overcome with emotion herself.

"No." It was not strictly a lie if the tears had not fallen. But were they born from joy or lament, or a compound of both? "Just – God, Mercedes, I've missed you so much!"

"_Awwh, Kurt, honey. I've missed you too, more than anything in the world … And now you've set me off too,_" she sniffled, and they both laughed around breathless sobs.

"I know, what are we like? If only everyone could see us now, they would laugh themselves silly"

How they managed to understand each other through burbled sentiments voiced in quailing whispers, they never thereafter knew. But that was the power of friendship, it did not need words.

"_Well, don't worry. This weekend you're staying at my house; no arguments, and after that, we're going to see so much of each other that we'll be sick of the sight of one another before we miss them again. Think you can just get rid of me by transferring. Nope, it's not that easy. Sorry to say, but you're stuck with me for life."_

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Thirty minutes later, he pulled back out onto the interstate, with the time rapidly approaching seven. Well, there went family dinner anyway. Please let there be left-overs he implored passionately, he couldn't honestly recall ever feeling so famished before.

And apparently luck was with him, for the tangled labyrinth of carriageways was redeemed from the grips of grid-lock. He sailed through the interstate without stopping. And wouldn't that have been a bitter brew for its previous pilgrims to swallow had they known. Patience was a virtue after all.

He made the last remaining leg of his journey in good time, having missed the tail end of evening rush hour. The amber embrace of sentry street-lamps guided him into the realm of urban habitation that he knew so well.

It was with a sense of overwhelming relief that he finally pulled into the driveway of his home and killed the purring engine. The house was in darkness apart from the living room where a pillar of light breeched the partially drawn curtains, beyond which he could see the shadow of figures moving about on the TV screen; his dad and Finn were watching football, _again_.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest, sighing contentedly; he had made it. Of course, that feat was a worthless victory if he could not muster together the threads of resolve necessary to tread the last five steps which separated his car from the front door, but details. He just needed a moment to order his thoughts before the faced the onslaught of numerous people once again.

So exhausted was he when he had pulled into the drive, that he had failed to notice Finn sitting on the front porch, awaiting his return. The moment the engine stalled, Finn had stood, expecting Kurt to alight and meet him, hesitating for a minute when he in fact he had not. Then he moved towards the four by four and rapped lightly upon the window to gain his step-brothers attention.

Kurt had been listing upon the cusp of sleep when he was startled back into awareness by an echoing knock, which resounded from all around him. Blinking blearily, he spotted Finn at the passenger-side door.

"Open up, dude, I'm freezing out here," he pleaded.

With fumbling movements, Kurt unlocked the door and Finn hurriedly stepped inside, bringing with him a gust of cold air, that effectively eradicated any tendrils of sleep which may have endured to lay counter-siege to the former. Even the very fibres of Finn's clothing seemed to exude an imbued chill as he sat shivering slightly.

Kurt took pity on him and turned the interior heating up to the maximum, rolling his eyes in endearing exasperation when Finn gratefully placed his huge hands over the emitting grills. Just how long had his doofus of a brother been sitting outside in the cold wearing nothing other than jeans and a hoodie for anyway? And to what purpose?

"You're late," Finn said, "we expected you home half an hour ago."

"Traffic on the interstate," Kurt yawned, "I pulled into a convenience store parking lot to wait it out, rather than enter the mayhem."

"Oh. That makes sense."

For the first time that night, Kurt really took notice of his step-brothers demeanour; bowed, fidgety and falsely sullen. From those signs alone he knew that Finn was working himself up to saying something important. And so he waited patiently, giving him all the time he needed. The funny thing about his gargantuan step-brother was that he seemed to shrink under the weight of his own words sometimes; as uncomfortable as a child forced to repent their wrongdoings under the watchful eye of a parent. And in those fleeting moments, for all his years and excessive inches, he did in fact remind Kurt of a child, and it was at those times that he felt the need to step infrequently into the relative role of older brother.

In the pregnant silence Kurt pretended to busy himself with the task of re-ordering his CD's in attempts to absolve any further gathering pressure from the situation, that would potentially deter Finn, who appeared to be having a hard enough time from the ordeal besides.

Finn liked to say things exactly right. It was one of his subtler traits, which Kurt had only recently acquainted himself with, and another thing; he would most certainly not be hurried. Then, finally:

"Kurt, I'm sorry."

Kurt replaced the CD cases in a worse jumble than they had been originally. Finn held Kurt's gaze as he made his apology and the latter found the gesture almost overly intense.

"For what?" He retained a tone of encouragement even as suspicion began to creep into his mind. Had Finn broken something in their room and was now trying to avert Kurt's anger by heading him off first?

"I've been a jerk the last couple of days." He admitted his failing in the absence of qualm, but with enough abashment that Kurt knew him to be sincere.

"Well, you said it," he joked lightly, nothing less than intently relieved that his prized, rare and expensive possessions were all in the state he had took leave of them. But Finn, however, did not take his offer of redemption and instead ploughed on with his self berating campaign regardless.

"No, I have. I've been a jerk to mom and Burt, but most of all I've been a jerk to you and I'm sorry. I guess I was just disappointed that you didn't talk to me about all this, and disappointed in myself because I should have took more notice of what was going on. So I kinda took it out on you because I didn't want to admit I was wrong. But in the end I knew that I was. It's your life, and I know you need to do what makes you happy, so if you feel safer at Dalton than McKinley, then I guess what I'm trying to say is; that's fine by me.

"I'm new at this whole big brother thing, and a lot of the time I get it wrong, but just so you know; I got your back and I am looking out for you. Next time, I promise I'll get it right."

Finn smiled, which Kurt found a peculiar response to the tenor of his repentance and pledge, but that was where the two of them differed: Finn swallowed his pride and did what was necessary without ill feeling, without begrudging and without indignation, while Kurt was the more headstrong and proud of the two.

But it wasn't fair for Finn to take all the blame for something which was a dual effort, and Kurt knew it. Somehow though, admitting his failings to his step-brother, especially in reciprocal, was a prospect less mortifying than admitting them to anyone else.

So holding Finn's gaze, which seemed for him to certify sincerity – even though it made Kurt highly uncomfortable – the latter also absolved his own blameworthiness.

"No, I'm sorry too. You're right, I should have talked to you about it. It was unfair of me to leave you in the dark, to make such a decision and just expect you to be okay with it. I guess you're not the only one who needs practice at this whole brother thing, huh?"

He tried to smile, but was certain its constitution was more inclined to a weak grimace than the intended gesture. Finn, however, did not seem to notice and took it at its design.

"Apology accepted. Are we cool again now?"

Finn extended his right hand, fist clenched.

Kurt rolled his eyes slightly, but it was all for show, secretly he treasured the gesture that was, if not entirely of their own coining, meant something entirely singular to them.

"Yeah, we're 'cool'" And he bumped his knuckles lightly against Finn's. The enthusiasm he would work on later.

As if on cue, Pavarotti chose that moment to reinforce his presence by tweeting exuberantly in the back seat. He was a bird after Kurt's own heart; never allowed the spotlight to leave him wanting too long.

"Whoa! What was that?" If Finn had spun around in his seat any quicker it would have resulted in injury.

"You got a bird?" he demanded half shocked half incredulous.

Kurt just grinned, leaning over to unbuckle Pavarotti's cage and setting it down upon his knee.

"Finn, meet Pavarotti, the descendant of an unbroken line of canneries who have been at Dalton since 1891, or so I have been told," he introduced with pride. Wes would have been disheartened to know that his careful trivia was wasted upon Finn.

"They gave you a bird?" Finn repeated with a laugh, fixing the cannery with a desirous expression, "I think I might transfer to Dalton," he joked. Now it was Kurt's turn to laugh.

"Mr. Schue would be devastated. I don't think McKinley could survive loosing the two of us."

"Yeah, your probably right," Finn agreed. And then:

"Hey, are you hungry? We ate before, but mom's saved you some lasagne if you want it."

"I'm starving," Kurt assured him. And the thought of Carole's lasagne while always amazing, was now even more enticing.

Without further communication, they moved simultaneously to alight, before Finn called out in arrest:

"Hey, Kurt, wait. Maybe I should carry Pavarotti's cage."

Kurt glanced at him with sudden interest, one eyebrow raised, while Finn shifted uncomfortably, running a hand up and down the back of his neck, "because, you know, you have your bag to carry and – "

Without further hesitation and necessity of excuse on Finn's part, Kurt handed the cage over, the small cannery cooing placidly.

Finn took it happily, cradling it as if it were a thing most dear to him in the world, He watched the sunshine yellow bird with ardent rapture as Pavarotti moved around his cage.

Kurt smiled, at least Pavarotti was a hit with one of his family members.

"I hope they let you keep him." and there was desperate longing in his voice.

An idea suddenly struck Kurt then:

"Help me convince dad and Carole that keeping Pav is a good idea and I'll make it worth your while."

Finn considered this for a moment, but Kurt knew he had his loveable step-brother on side before he even uttered his affirmative. For who could resist the charms of the tiny cannery?

The pursuit of happiness had been long and arduous, and in the end he found it not in material possession or the attainment of impossible dreams. He found it in the people around him. His family and friends, faithful to the last.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for reading.<em>

_I can only hope that you gained some enjoyment from it._

_- One Wish Magic_


End file.
